


Have You Met Miss Jones?

by MsBrooklyn



Series: Assembly Line (or Why It's a Lot Harder than Steve Thought to Recruit New Members) [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), Spider-Man (Ultimateverse), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Themes, F/M, Pre-Series Jessica Jones, WinterAlias, WinterSleuth, mature language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBrooklyn/pseuds/MsBrooklyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the architect hired to design a Stark Industries facility in upstate New York suffers a fatal heart attack and the blueprints mysteriously vanish, Jessica Jones is called in to find them.  The case leads her deeper into the world of the Avengers and her new friend, James "Bucky" Barnes.</p><p> </p><p>**** now with awesome artwork!  See Chapter 22 *****</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

*****This story will contain mild references to events leading up to Season 1 of Jessica Jones in an attempt to not spoil the series for those who have yet to watch. It is intended as a companion piece to the Assembly Line series.*****

Chapter 1  
  
  
**Up Above Hell's Kitchen**  
  
  
  
It's almost one in the morning.  Closing time.  And I'm doing the thing I shouldn't be doing.  The thing I can't help myself from doing.  I'm watching him again.  I'm watching _them_ again.  It's like watching a dance routine that you've memorized or reading a book that you know by heart.  
  
They're going to leave the bar and go up to his apartment.  
  
And I'm going to sit here on this rusted out fire escape, taking pictures of them.  
  
Pictures of them kissing.  
  
Of them undressing each other.  
  
Of them doing other things together.  
  
I feel dirty and disgusting, like the worst kind of pervert and I'm still here, with my camera, ready to capture every sordid detail of the bartender and the woman.  Because I do it every time.  
  
I try not to think of the reasons why.  
  
To help myself not think about it, I reach for the travel mug next to me, for the cup that's more bourbon than coffee and I drink.  And I watch.  
  
He settles next to me on the fire escape so silently he might as well be a ghost.  Hell, they called him a ghost until someone found out he was real.  Go figure Death had a name.  
  
James Buchanan Barnes.  The Winter Soldier.  The Fist of HYDRA.  Whatever you want to call him, the man was a hero then a legend and now...  People are still trying to figure out if he's a good guy or a bad guy.    
  
So am I.  
  
His sister hired me to find him when the world found out the hard way that he was still alive and it just so happens that I'm a damned good private investigator.  Maybe a little too good, considering Death is my new buddy.  
  
"Shouldn't you be home, tucking Spidey into bed and telling him a story?" I ask.  It's a theory I have, that the Winter Soldier is bunking with the teenager who calls himself Spider-man.  What else could possibly explain the daddy-son vibe going on in the picture that's dominating every corner of the Internet and has spawned the hashtag, #WinterSoldierSnuggles?  
  
Barnes flashes a predatory smile at me.  "Did that a couple of hours ago and left him cuddled up  with his Bucky Bear."  
  
Flirting with Death is another thing I shouldn't be doing, so of course I'm doing it.  Again.  Death has been stalking me.  He's shown up on the fire escape twice now since the first time he broke into my office.  Supposedly, we're friends but I'm thinking Death might be having other ideas about the definition of friendship.  
  
His eyes slide down to my travel mug and I'm suddenly reminded that the super soldier has super senses in addition to being super sexy.  
  
"Stop being so fucking judgmental," I tell him and for good measure, I take a good long drink.  There's a slight slur to my words but I'm not drunk.  Not even close.  Not yet.  
  
"Glass houses," Barnes shrugs.  He tenses beside me.  "Is that a different broad?"  
  
"Nobody's said 'broad' since Sinatra kicked it."  I peer down at the bartender and his friend.  "Same broad.  Different hairstyle.  Looks like she traded the braids for straightener."  
  
"Shit," Barnes says, not taking his eyes off the bartender as the happy couple leaves the bar and goes into the apartment building next door. "Sinatra's dead?  The dames went wild over slow dancin' to Sinatra."  
  
"Tough break, Barnes.  You're going to have to get some new game."  
  
"Why mess with somethin' that ain't broke?"  
  
"Yeah," I mutter in agreement, watching the show start in the bartender's apartment.  "Why?"  
  
Barnes picks up my travel mug and drinks thoughtfully while he watches the couple get down to business.  "Looks like the game ain't changed much since my day."  
  
I start snapping pictures using my zoom lens to get money shot after money shot.  No matter how many times I've watched this, I can't tear my eyes away.  I can't stop wondering what it would be like to be under the bartender, to feel him in me.  
  
Never gonna happen.  
  
Death shifts next to me and belatedly, I remember those goddamned super senses.  He can hear the way I'm breathing.   Hell, he can smell me.  I'm pretty sure I can smell me, too.  
  
Suddenly, fucking with Death seems like a really good idea.  
  
I lower the camera and look Death in the eye.  "Show me your game."  
  
He reaches out and strokes my face with the backs of two fingers.  "Ain't safe."  
  
"Safe is bullshit."  
  
"I could hurt you."  
  
"Maybe I don't mind."  
  
One second, Death is looking me in the eye.  The next, he's gone.  
  
I grab my travel mug, settle in and watch the bartender.  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
  
**Too Dark Thirty in Forest Hills**  
  
  
  
Barnes climbs in his window even though he has a key to the front door of the Parker house.  Not only does it keep him in practice but he avoids the squeaky floorboards and the one squeaky step.  He also doesn't wake up Aunt May, who seems to have a preternatural sense of when he's restless at night.  That restlessness is from bad dreams.    
  
This restlessness is something else altogether.  
  
And not for the first time since he met Jessica Jones, Barnes wonders what the hell he's doing.  
  
He strips quickly and efficiently, changing into the soft sweatpants and T-shirt that he sleeps in and then pads barefoot down the hall.  Of course he doesn't make a sound.  Neither does the door to Petey's bedroom when he opens it.  He's made sure to oil the hinges well so that he doesn't disturb the sleeping boy when Barnes checks on him at least once a night.  And it's a damned good thing Barnes checks on him tonight because Petey has thrown the covers halfway off and is tucked into a tight little ball of sleeping anxiety.    
  
Maybe the kid really does need a Bucky Bear.    
  
Petey is fifteen years old and the shit he's seen and done as Spider-man boggles Barnes' mind. Of course the kid has nightmares.  Barnes has vowed to himself that he's going to make damned sure that the nightmares are kept to a minimum and that his kid doesn't have to face those kinds of horrors by himself anymore.  
  
Barnes gently tugs the blanket back up over Petey's slender shoulders, watching with satisfaction as the boy slowly uncurls his body and shifts into a more relaxed position.  It takes every ounce of self-control not to pet the boy's hair.  
  
Fuck it, Barnes decides and pets Petey's hair.  He gets a soft, contented sound for his reward.  
  
Now Barnes can turn in.  He's checked on Jones, patrolled the perimeter, checked on Mary Jane and confirmed that Petey is, as he told Jones, tucked in.  Mission status: completed.  
  
He pads down to the kitchen for a glass of water and runs smack into Steve, who's waiting for him in the kitchen.  
  
"Aunt May's been a little concerned about your midnight jaunts," Steve says.  "But I told her you probably weren't doing anything foolish like single-handedly going after HYDRA operations again."  
  
"Been waiting long?" Barnes asks, avoiding the topic entirely.  Of course Stevie's been waiting a couple of hours.  That's how long Barnes has been gone and that's how much of a dent Stevie's put into the copy of Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay that he's reading.    
  
Stevie eyes him and changes the topic to something else entirely.  "Darcy told me you haven't called her yet."  
  
Barnes drains his glass of water and refills it from the tap.  "'S why I'm not callin' her."  
  
"I'm not following you."  
  
"Darcy told you," Barnes says flatly.  "I wanna call her, that's my business and hers.  Not yours.  Not Thor's.  Girl talks too much."  He sets the glass down harder on the counter than he intended.  "She talks too much.  She's too loud.  She's too... Everything.   Spending time with her is like being in the damn chair, that's how much she makes my head hurt."  
  
"Buck --" Steve begins.  
  
"She's pretty," Barnes amends just in case Stevie and Darcy are closer friends than he's let on.  "I just can't handle that in my life right now."  
  
Steve folds his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes at Barnes.  "That's not the only reason, is it?"  
  
Barnes narrows his own eyes and privately cheers this little victory of being able to match wills with Stevie for the first time since coming out of HYDRA's control.    
  
The staring contest continues until Steve says, almost conversationally, "The reason is in Hell's Kitchen."  
  
"You're spyin' on me?"  
  
"Me?"  Stevie is the very picture of innocence.  "You'd know if I followed you.  But would you notice Matt if he were, oh, four blocks away?"  
  
Barnes' eyes drop from Steve's.  Noncompliance confirmed.  No.  No.  He's not an asset anymore and everyone, including Stevie, insists he's free to make his own choices.  "I wasn't aware I was under house arrest."  
  
"You're not," Steve says quickly because of course he's watching Barnes' every reaction like a goddamned hawk.  "What I'm trying to say -- and badly -- is that I think it's great you've got yourself a girl."  
  
"Jones is a _friend_."  It comes out a little more defiantly than Barnes expects but he's damned if he's going to apologize.  "Didja know that men and women can be friends in this amazing modern culture we're livin' in?"  And he hopes like hell Murdock hasn't said anything different.  Because they are.  Just friends.    
  
The look Stevie shoots him says he's not buying the 'friends' business.  "Well, look, Aunt May was worried and Matt was good enough to text me tonight and let me know he knew your whereabouts."  
  
Barnes considers talking to Stevie about Jones.  No doubt Stevie picked up on the same things Barnes did.  They both grew up in the shadow of the Great War and they saw the men who came back.  There were the ones who took to the bottle or the needle and forsook  responsibility for everything except finding the oblivion they craved.  And then there were the ones like Jessica Jones.  The kid is hurting.  Barnes can see it as easily as he sees it in his own reflection.  If he ever finds out who made the kid hurt that much...  
  
"You stayin' over?" Barnes asks finally and he's suddenly aware of the cadences of Brooklyn that have been coloring his words all night.    
  
"Only place I can get some real shuteye," Steve admits sheepishly.  
  
"Aunt May's gonna make good on her threat to put bunk beds in my room, you keep talking like that, Stevie."  
  
"In that case, I'll make sure to bring it up over breakfast."  
  
"Punk."  
  
"Jerk."  
  
No, he's not an asset anymore.  
  
In fact, he might even be on his way to being a real boy again.  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000

  
  
**The Start of the Workday in Midtown Manhattan**  
  
  
  
  
The Barnes case brought a lot of potential business my way so I didn't question the six a.m. phone call that asked me to be at Avengers Tower for a meeting with someone named Maria Hill from Stark Industries promptly at nine.  I arrive five minutes early and breeze through the security that keeps the rest of the world away from Tony Stark's.  A receptionist who looks like a Vogue cover model greets me at the elevator and leads me to a conference room where there is a pot of hot coffee and a plate of fresh pastries waiting for me.  
  
I cool my heels for a good seven minutes before yet another immaculately groomed woman steps into the room.  She's not a fashion model.  Not this one.  Everything about her screams efficient and the way she eyes me tells me that the things she's efficient in don't involve photocopying or filing.  
  
We shake hands and she gets down to business, sliding a thumb drive and a business card to me.  "Ms. Potts and Captain Rogers both had very good things to say about you, particularly about your discretion and your insistence on adhering to ethics."  
  
Peeking down at the business card, I see that Hill's title is Head of Security.  Now my interest is well and truly piqued.   What kind of case requires ethics and discretion but can't be handled in-house?  
  
Hill waits for me to look up again and then continues.  "We're renovating a building upstate that involves some highly sophisticated security measures.  I've been coordinating with our architect on the project and we had a meeting last night to go over the blueprints."  
  
I wait but don't say anything.  I suppose I could nod but that just seems like a suck up move.  
  
"The architect left here after our meeting with the blueprints and hailed a cab," Hill goes on.  "He suffered a heart attack which unfortunately was fatal.  My team was unable to recover the blueprints and that's where you come in."  
  
"There has to be a tremendous black market for any kind of information coming out of this building," I say.  "Even if it's just the brand of toilet paper Captain America uses."  
  
There's a moment where I think Hill might actually crack a smile but it passes.  "Exactly.  Which means if Stark security starts asking questions, our leads will instantly dry up or worse, lead to blackmail scenarios that don't even involve the information we're seeking.   We need those blueprints back."  
  
"Was it really a heart attack?" I ask because, of course.  Anyone who watches TV would think to ask that question.    
  
"His sister claimed the body and refused an autopsy."  Hill meets my gaze.  "The funny thing is, according to our very thorough background check, Corwin Alford didn't have a sister."  
  
This, I think, is a far cry from my usual cheat and missing persons cases.  This is about as juicy as a case gets.  "I'm going to need access --"  
  
"Just call the number on that card and tell me what you need," Hill tells me.    
  
"I've tried the voicemail system."  
  
"Your call will come directly to me," Hill assures me.  "No matter where I am and if not, you can direct your requests to JARVIS and he'll take care of you."  
  
"Your assistant?"  
  
She finally smiles.  "You could call him that.  Don't worry about confidentiality when speaking with him.  He's completely trustworthy."  Hill gets to her feet, signaling the end of our meeting.  "If you'd be willing to make this case your priority, Ms. Jones, we'll pay double your usual hourly rate."  
  
Considering I have no active cases at the moment, that's music to my ears.  Still, I pretend to think it over.  "I'll have to shift a couple of things but I can do that, Ms. Hill."  
  
"Maria."  
  
"Jessica."  
  
We shake hands and I get the sense that if I can solve this case, I'll be hearing a lot more from Maria Hill.  
  
Finding Death and being his friend was paying off in ways I'd never expected.  
  
Who'd have thought _that_ would happen?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
  
  
**Mid-Morning in Hell's Kitchen**  
  
  
There are a few surprises waiting for me when I get back to my place.  The first is a package sitting outside the door from Stark Industries that contains a brand new laptop.  It's a top of the line model, lightweight and fast, with an insane amount of memory.  There's even a fancy laptop case.  Considerate of Hill, I think, as I plug it in to find that it's already loaded with the latest version of Office.  
  
The second and third surprises are sitting on my desk with a shiny red bow.  Apparently, Death had nothing better to do while Spider-kid is in school than to break in and drop off a Sinatra CD and a copy of Monopoly.   I'm almost afraid to open the note but I do it anyway.  
  
Death has _perfect_ handwriting.  Seriously perfect.  Like right out of a textbook.  It's so perfect that I kind of want to punch him because anyone with handwriting like that was probably a teacher's pet.  And then I read the note and _really_ think about punching him.    
  
"Damn shame about Sinatra," I read aloud to myself, "but the best games are still the classics.  I prefer the ones that involve time, strategy, patience and a little bit of luck.  How about you?  JBB."  I roll my eyes at the cheesy ridiculousness of the note and pick up the CD.  Naturally, one of the tracks is 'Have You Met Miss Jones?' because nobody's ever mentioned or -- God forbid -- sung that to me before.  "You're an asshole, Barnes!" I call out just in case he has the place bugged.  And I sure as shit wouldn't put it past him, either.  
  
I wait but there's no response.  
  
Then I get to work.  
  
When I plug the flash drive into the new laptop, I'm prompted to set a password.  A bunch of things happen after that.  The files load and in the upper right hand corner is a chat window connecting me to Hill's assistant, who is apparently so important that his name is all in capital letters: JARVIS.  I give JARVIS the finger and then put a sticky note over the camera, just in case the fucking laptop is loaded with spyware.  
  
I have to hand it to Hill's people.  They're damn thorough.  I have the 911 call and footage from the traffic cameras and other cameras near the scene of the accident.  There's a copy of Corwin Alford's background check, a background check on the cabbie and the cab company and a file of the security team's notes.  
  
They spoke to the cabbie at the scene and he said he didn't recall seeing Alford enter the cab with the blueprints.  I think for a minute.  Blueprints are large pieces of paper that are usually rolled up and kept in a cylindrical tube.   But am I looking for a cylindrical tube or something else?  None of the footage is from Avengers Tower so I can't see what he was carrying when he arrived or when he left.  
  
My gaze ticks to the chat window on my screen and JARVIS' message to me asking how he can help.  
  
So I tell him.  
  
I have no fucking idea how the files downloaded onto the laptop by themselves or how they downloaded so quickly but there they are and the first one is playing.  The time on the screen matches the chronology in the SI report so I know that the dorky looking guy in the suit with a big black tube slung over his shoulder is Alford.  
  
"Okay," I say to myself.  "Let's see if he had it when he left."  
  
The file switches without me laying so much as a finger on the keyboard.  
  
"What the fuck!?"  
  
"I apologize if I startled you, Ms. Jones."  And now there's a voice coming from the laptop.  It's Capital JARVIS and of course he's got a British accent.  He sounds like a friggin' butler.  "I have been asked to provide assistance to you by Ms. Hill."  
  
"You can hear me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Can you see me?"  
  
"You've obscured the camera lens," JARVIS tells me.  "However, it likely won't be necessary for me --"  
  
"So you know what I look like."  
  
"Yes, Ms. Jones.  I processed your security clearance and arranged for this laptop to be delivered, as well as prepared the flash drive."  
  
I blow out a breath.  "What do _you_ look like?" I ask, just to be a dick.  
  
There's a pause.  "My appearance is unimportant."  
  
It is and it isn't.  One the one hand, it's incredibly creepy having a conversation and being assisted by someone I've never met.  On the other, who really gives a shit if Capital JARVIS is good looking or, as I figure it, a dumpy Brit with receding hair and no chin who wears a fuck ton of tweed?  
  
"Fine.  Whatever."  I go back to the video and watch Alford leave the building, carrying his tube.  "Do we have footage of him hailing the cab?"  
  
"Mr. Alford walked one block north and out of the range of my cameras," Capital JARVIS tells me.  "I have so far been unable to find footage from other sources."  
  
"Which means it's possible he handed off the blueprints before ever getting in the cab," I conclude.  If I could magically have access to all the security cameras in the area, I'd look for someone walking away from the area with the tube.  
  
"I will search various feeds to determine whether or not we should pursue that line of inquiry," Capital JARVIS says, as if he could read my mind.  "This may take time, as some of the camera systems overwrite their data every few hours and others store their data locally before it is uploaded to an accessible network."  
  
I stare at the screen while I catch up and realize that Capital JARVIS isn't going to ask for those feeds politely.  He's going to hack them.  That's Hill's problem, not mine.  "Fine," I say finally.  "You do that."  
  
Since I can only assume that Alford had the blueprints in the cab, I start studying the footage of the EMTs responding to the cabbie's call.    
  
Why hadn't the cabbie taken Alford to the nearest hospital?  I check the location and see that it would have been Metro-General.  
  
Instead, the cabbie calls 911.  I pause the footage and play the recording, listening to the cabbie's tone as he tells the dispatcher that his fare is having a heart attack.  
  
I go to Alford's background check.  There's no medical history but he appears fit and he's only forty-two years old.  While it's not unheard of for someone that age to have a heart attack, it's unusual.     
  
"How did the cabbie know Alford was having a heart attack?" I ask myself.  
  
Capital JARVIS takes this as his cue to describe the symptoms of a heart attack.  
  
I tell him to shut up.  
  
He does.  
  
The cabbie is twenty-eight year old Maurice Koffi, formerly of the Cote D'Ivoire.  He's been in the US five years and lives in Jersey City.  He passed his taxi license exam three years ago and worked for the five different cab companies before joining GLG Taxi Inc. eight months ago.  His cabbie license photo shows a handsome, dark-skinned man with a full beard and a bright, white smile.  He's single, his immigration information is up to date and he pays his taxes and bills on time.  In short, there's nothing remotely suspicious about him.  
  
"None of the footage from the scene shows anyone carrying Mr. Alford's blueprint case," JARVIS announces.  
  
I know I'm going to double check that later on but just to be a bitch, I say, "Anybody have a suspicious bulge under their coat?  Or a large briefcase?  Blueprints can be folded."  
  
"Two bystanders had backpacks but they were not within sufficient distance of the vehicle.  The police established a perimeter, keeping away anyone who could have folded and concealed the blueprints under a coat."  
  
Damn.  "What about the EMTs?  They could have stashed the blueprints under the gurney or in it or something."  
  
"Mr. Alford was dead at the scene.  The coroner has a list of personal effects taken with the body but these do not include the blueprints."  
  
"The coroner's guys could have hidden the blueprints in the body bag."  
  
Footage appears on the screen.  
  
"The size and shape of the body bag appears consistent with Mr. Alford's height and weight.  There is nothing to indicate the body bag conceals the blueprints."  
  
"Because if they took them out of the tube and folded them up, the tube would still have been in the car," I agree.  
  
"Correct."  
  
I lean back in my chair and consider my first move.  It's like playing chess.  The first move can influence how the entire game plays out.  Koffi wasn't particularly forthcoming with Hill's team but that might have been because he was on the clock.  According to the investigation notes, Koffi's shift ended at seven a.m.    
  
Koffi's apartment in Jersey City is a bit of a hike from the Grove Street PATH Station but it isn't worth renting a ZipCar and fighting traffic through one of the tunnels, I decide.  It's going to be public transportation for me today.  
  
"Keep working on the second man angle," I tell JARVIS.  "I'm going to see a man about a cab."  
  
My cell phone rings.  JARVIS.  Now I have his direct dial and add it to my speed dial list.  
  
I pull the sticky note from the laptop's camera.  "Keep an eye on the place, will you?  Let me know if I have any visitors while I'm gone.  Call the cops if it's anyone without a key who doesn't have a metal arm."  
  
JARVIS doesn't miss a beat and doesn't ask about Death or his shiny appendage.  "Safe travels, Ms. Jones."  
  
I'm starting to get the feeling there's a lot going on behind the scenes that I don't know about.  
  
I hate that feeling.  
  
  
  
00000000000000000000  
  
  
**Later in God-Forsaken Jersey City**  
  
  
Normally, it takes about twenty minutes to go from the 33rd Street PATH station in Manhattan to the Grove Street Station in Jersey City.  Today, it takes me more than twice that due to police activity at the 9th Street Station.  But it doesn't matter how long it took me because it turns out that even if I'd arrived at Koffi's rented room twenty minutes earlier, he would have been just as  dead.  
  
Jersey City police are busy keeping the curious onlookers back as the body bags are wheeled out.  I listen, trying to catch snippets of any conversation that might tell me what happened.  And then I see her.  She's in her sixties, Haitian accent, overweight and wearing a worn down coat over her scrubs and she's saying something about carbon monoxide.  
  
I elbow through the crowd.  
  
Mathilde Garceau is her name and she lives next door.  For the past two days, there's been a strange smell coming from her neighbors' house.  Today is her day off and the weather is unusually warm but she couldn't open up a window because of the smell.  Deciding that was the last straw, Mathilde rang the bell.  Nobody answered but she could hear the television.  She peeked in the front window and saw the bodies.  
  
I pull up Koffi's picture on my cell phone and show it to her.  "Was this one of the men who lived there?"  
  
"Who are you?" Mathilde asks suspiciously.    
  
"New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission," I lie but don't bother elaborating.  In situations like these, it's better to let people assume the worst.  
  
Mathilde heaves a put-upon sigh.  "Let me see that again."  She squints at the photo.  "He shaved off the beard but that's one of the men who lives in the house.  I don't know if he's one of the ones who died."  
  
"Thanks," I tell her.  For a moment, I consider telling the cops I'm a stringer for one of the news websites but there's no point.  They won't release names until they notify next of kin.  Eavesdropping may turn out to be a waste of time.  
  
If only I knew someone who could listen into their radio conversations...  
  
Capital JARVIS.  
  
I put some distance between myself and the crowd and hit the number on my speed-dial.  
  
JARVIS picks up on the first ring and says without preamble.  "My apologies, Ms. Jones but the police were en route at the same time you were.  I had no way of reaching you while you were underground."  
  
Damn, he's good.  "Do they have a tentative ID on Koffi?"  
  
"Yes," J tells me.  "And a tentative time of death.  Three days ago."  He pauses long enough to let me wonder who the hell was driving Alford's cab.  "I'm running facial recognition programs against images of the driver that I was able to obtain from security footage.  So far, there have been no matches."  
  
My next stop is beyond obvious and because it is, I have to ask, "GLG Taxi is a real company, right?"  
  
"GLG Taxi, Inc. is a valid New York Corporation with a place of business on 385 East 188th Street.  A New York Taxi and Limousine Commission medallion was issued to GLG in 2008."  
  
An image of 385 East 188th Street is sent to my phone.  It's definitely a cab company and there's a sign that reads GLG Taxi.  
  
"Unfortunately, there are no live feeds of the street for me to access for further verification," JARVIS says.  
  
The address is in the Bronx so that isn't exactly a surprise.  "Keep me posted."  
  
"As you wish.  May I report your progress to Ms. Hill?"  
  
I look back at Koffi's home.  Two dead.  Alford's death is beginning to look a lot less like a heart attack.  "I haven't made much progress yet, J, but then again, I'm just getting started."  
  
"I'll relay message that as well, Ms. Jones."  
  
Capital JARVIS is really starting to grow on me.  
  
That's a scary thought.  
  
  
  
0000000000000000  
  
  
  
**Midtown High School, Forest Hills**  
  
  
  
  
  
Barnes is waiting for Petey when the boy gets out of school for the day.   He knows that at fifteen, Petey is too old to be walked to and from school.  He knows it.  He just doesn't care.   The next ten days are important ones, filled with New York State Regents' exams and Advanced Placement exams.  If Petey does extremely well on the former, he's that much closer to a Regents' Diploma and the scholarships that come with it.  The latter means that Petey will start college with a handful of credits under his belt.     
  
There'd been a brief disagreement with Aunt May over the cost of the AP exams and Barnes' insistence on paying for them using cash he took from stashes in various HYDRA strongholds.  Aunt May refused to accept what she called blood money and what Barnes called reparations for the seventy years he spent with his neck under HYDRA's polished boots.  In the end, he bypassed all the objections by going to Petey's school himself and paying for the tests.  End of argument.  Besides, it isn't as if Aunt May has the cash to spare, not with the cost of each exam being nearly a hundred dollars and Petey taking them in every single subject he was studying this term.    
  
The bell rings and kids begin to file out.  Barnes immediately notices that fathead, Flash Thompson and his sycophants because they gather together by the gate to wait for the rest of their crew.  By the time Petey hurries out of the building, Thompson is surrounded by a dozen similar idiot jocks.  They eye Petey as if he's a gazelle with an injured leg and they're a pack of starving hyenas.  Barnes catches Thompson's eye and gives him a glimpse of what the most dangerous thing in the jungle looks like.  Thompson pales.  
  
Petey, bless him, is completely oblivious.  Like Stevie at that age, he's innocent enough to believe the best of people and to want to help.  Unfortunately, Stevie's not quite so innocent anymore.  
  
"What're you doing here?" Petey asks, breaking into a happy smile that warms Barnes from the inside.  
  
"I wanted to hear how you did on your tests, punk."  
  
Petey shrugs.  "I think I did okay."  
  
"Only okay?"    
  
"I never get less than an A," Petey says quietly, like it's something to be embarrassed about.  
  
Barnes shoots another glare in Thompson's direction.  It's not hard to see what Petey's life was like before he got bitten by that spider but it just about breaks Barnes' heart that Petey has to pretend he's not capable of tearing Thompson in half.  Even if, as Petey suspects, most of the kids in his class saw him get bitten and know he's Spidey.  It's not much different than Barnes' having to pretend he's a veteran of a war he's never fought in instead of the one he did and can't remember.  
  
Petey follows Barnes' gaze.  "Would you quit it already?  He hasn't laid a hand on me in ages."  
  
The unspoken implication is that Thompson is still running his big, fat mouth.  Rather than make a big deal of it, Barnes drapes an arm around those slender shoulders.  "I picked up some cannolis at that bakery --"  
  
"Hey, Sarge."    
  
Barnes lets go of Petey and turns around slowly.  
  
"That's so sweet how you're walking little Petey there home."  Thompson is pretending to have a pair now that he's surrounded by a dozen of his strongest friends.  Kong, Barnes is pleased to note, is not among them.  "You're his...what?  Cousin?"  
  
"What's it to you?" Barnes asks.  
  
"Well, we couldn't help but notice how _hands on_ you are with him," Thompson smirks and his crowd of idiots snort with laughter.  They must have been rehearsing this for days.  "Unless you're _that_ kind of a cousin."  The morons he's with make kissing noises.  
  
Petey grabs onto Barnes' left arm.  "Don't.  He's not worth it."  
  
"Boy," Barnes says icily, "Haven't we already established that I'm the last person on this planet you want to fuck with?"  
  
Thompson gestures to his idiot friends.  "Twelve of us."  He points at Barnes.  "One of you."  
  
Barnes snatches the football from the hands of one of the idiots and he does it so quickly that they don't realize it's happened until he's holding it.  In his left hand.  With a smirk that eclipses Thompson's, he crushes the football until it explodes with a satisfying pop.  Then he tosses the remains into Thompson's stupid face.  "One of me is all I need, fathead."  
  
Thompson gawks wordlessly at him.  
  
Message successfully delivered, Barnes slings his arm back over Petey's shoulders and steers him away, thinking just how sweet those cannolis are going to taste.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
  
**The 2 Train - Sitting in a Tunnel Just Before the 72nd Street Station**  
  
  
  
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen."  
  
Here we go again.  This is the fourth panhandler to regale us with his tale of woe since I boarded the train at Park Place.  The first panhandler sang an off key rendition of a gospel song that I didn't recognize and, if the few measly pennies he got was any indication, none of the other passengers recognized it either.  After that came an a cappella group singing 'Under the Boardwalk' and not only were they in key, they were fucking excellent enough for me to give them a dollar.  They were followed by a woman who was dragging a toddler along as she claimed she wasn't making ends meet on government assistance.  I never know whether or not to believe them.  On the one hand, I know that it's probably impossible to survive on welfare in New York City.  On the other... There's just too damn many of them.    
  
"I'm sorry to disturb your commute," the poor pitiful panhandler goes on.    
  
Of course he is.  I glance over and take him in.  He's somewhere in his late thirties, I think.  He's tall, able-bodied and wearing a brand new pair of Nikes.    
  
"I just finished a twenty year sentence in Florida," PPP says, "and I'm trying to find work."  
  
Florida?  Then what the fuck is PPP doing here in New York City?  They don't just hand out twenty year sentences for jaywalking.  Twenty years was hard time for something serious and if it was that serious, the terms of this guy's release would include him not leaving the state.  Surreptitiously, I slip my phone out of my pocket to see if we're anywhere near one of the new WiFi hotspots the MTA is benevolently giving its customers.  
  
PPP goes on with his spiel.  "I came here to see my wife and my son but they're gone and I don't know where they are.  I can't get benefits.  I can't find a job.  If you know of a job..."  
  
Bingo.  There's WiFi.  I quickly snap a photo while PPP is directing his spiel at a girl wearing a Hunter College baseball cap.  She's studiously ignoring him.  I send the photo to Capital JARVIS and ask him how quickly he can run a check to find out if this guy is wanted for violating the terms of his release.  
  
Capital JARVIS responds seventeen seconds later with PPP's name -- Lester Leroy Suggs, violent offender who just finished a stint for aggravated assault and rape and as I predicted, there's a $1,000 reward from the State of Florida because he failed to report to his parole officer.  A copy of the warrant, J tells me, is in my e-mail and he's notified the NYPD to meet me at the 72nd Street Station.  
  
I think I might actually have a little crush on Capital JARVIS at this point.  
  
The train lurches from its full stop and the conductor announces that 72nd Street is the next stop.  
  
Lester is finished with his pitch and now he's walking down the length of the car to collect his handouts.  As I figured, telling nice hardworking people that you just got out of jail isn't exactly a winning story.  He pauses in front of the Hunter College girl.  
  
She ignores him.  
  
I pull a dollar out of my pocket and it's like Lester can smell it.  He beelines for me.  
  
"Thank you, darlin'."  
  
"You're welcome, Lester."  
  
His eyes go comically wide and then he turns to run.  
  
I grab his arm and of course we tussle for a minute, putting on the best show my fellow commuters have seen the entire ride.  By the time we pull into the station, I've got him on the floor, hands pinned behind his back and the other passengers are applauding and cheering.  
  
Four uniformed officers take it from there, one of them handing me a body receipt and saving me a trip to the station.  
  
My phone vibrates and I look down at it to find a message from JARVIS telling me that he pre-arranged all the paperwork so that I could continue my investigation unimpeded.  Not only do I thank him -- profusely -- but I tell him that I'm cutting him in for a third of the reward.  
  
JARVIS declines.  
  
He also declines an offer of going out for drinks, dinner or me sending him lunch.  
  
The guy is too good to be real.  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
  
  
**Forest Hills, New York**  
  
  
  
  
  
Barnes watches with satisfaction as Petey finishes his sandwich and hits the threshold calorie count that Barnes is enforcing.  Still, extra can't hurt and Barnes slides the plate with the chocolate cannoli in front of the boy and then refills his glass of milk.    
  
"What was Steve really doing here last night?" Petey asks, taking the milk and refilling Barnes' glass.  "Does it have anything to do with where you've been sneaking off to?"  
  
Caught.  He can't lie.  Lying was conditioned out of him so long ago that even the thought of trying to do it makes his heart rabbit in his chest.  Avoiding, he can do.  He just can't lie.  "It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Petey."  
  
Petey leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly at Barnes.  "Of course I'm concerned.  I'm _always_ going to be concerned.  And..."  He drops his gaze, sighs and then looks back up at Barnes.  "You've got to be going out of your mind, being cooped up here all day.  Is that what's going on?"  
  
Boredom.  Is that what he's been feeling?  Years of being punished for having feelings, let alone expressing them means that he doesn't recognize most of them anymore.  "I... Maybe."  
  
"You don't have to sneak out," Petey says, expression softening.  "You know you don't, right?"  
  
Barnes can't bring himself to speak so he just nods.  
  
"So."  Petey leans forward.  "What've you been doing?  Fighting crime?  Going after HYDRA?"  
  
"No."  What he's been doing is checking on Jones but how is he supposed to explain that to Petey?  
  
"Oh."  The boy blinks.  "Oh.  Um, hey, it's none of my business what you're doing.  So, um, you know, just never mind."  
  
"There's a girl.  Jones." Barnes blurts and he can't believe he just put that out there.  Is it leftover HYDRA programming that made him do it or just the fact that there are things he's more comfortable discussing with Peter instead of Steve?  
  
Peter's eyes practically bug out of his head.  "Jones?  _Jessica_ Jones?  The _detective_?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You, uh, like her?"  
  
Barnes shrugs.  "She took Becca's case and went looking for me.  Not many people would."  
  
"You know she's got powers?" Petey asks.  
  
This is actually news to him.  He's seen her in her office and found her on that fire escape spying on that guy she's so hung up on.  The only powers he's witnessed so far are her ability to drink like a friggin' fish and mouth off like a champ.  "Does she?"  
  
"Matt said she's strong and she flies."  
  
"Flies?"  
  
"Badly."  
  
"Badly," Barnes echoes, still hung up on the 'strong' part of the equation. "Huh."  
  
"You don't think she's kind of, um..."  Petey bites his lip and then finishes.  "Scary?"  He must see something in Barnes' expression because he actually blushes.  "You like that she's scary."  
  
"I like that she's tough," Barnes corrects him.  "She's smart and she's resourceful.  And I think she needs a friend.  That's all."  
  
The kid eyes him doubtfully.  "You're friends with her."  
  
Barnes shrugs.  "You think women and men can't be friends?"  
  
"I think you can do anything you put your mind to doing," Petey says, with a knowing grin that he quickly hides by taking a giant bite of cannoli.  And then he adds, with his mouth full, naturally, "And I think you like her."  
  
Maybe he does at that.  
  
  
  
000000000000000  
  
  
**385 East 188th Street, the Bronx**  
  
  
  
  
The trek from the Fordham Road train station takes me from the tony neighborhood surrounding Fordham University to a light industrial area.  East 188th Street boasts a drive-in claims service, an auto-body shop and a number of unmarked three story office buildings.  I walk up to 385 and instead of finding the bright yellow and blue sign for GLG Taxi, I find a red and white 'for rent' sign.  And what's really weird is that the sign looks like it's been there for a while because it's rusty.  
  
I pull out my cell phone and bring up the photo of the building's facade that JARVIS sent me earlier.  It's definitely the same building.  
  
Weird.  
  
I snap a photo and send it to JARVIS with a pithy message consisting of a question mark.  
  
My phone rings a second later.  "Yes, JARVIS?"  
  
"The same image appears on every single mapping service," he tells me.  
  
"Is it possible to hack them?"  
  
"Indeed.  I am investigating that line of inquiry now.  Is there anything else you require?"  
  
I think for a moment.  "Yes, pull the corporate filings for GLG and run backgrounds on the officers and directors.  Let's find out if they're real people or if the state corporation database was hacked too.  Also, find out who owns the building and who the real estate agent is."  
  
"I'll take care of that directly, Ms. Jones."  
  
"Fantastic."  I hang up.  There are some things that you can do with a computer.  Interviewing witnesses is never going to be one of them.  
  
I paste on a smile and walk into the auto body shop across the street, feeling the stares on my back from the two guys working on the bumper of a Hyundai Accent.  Ignoring them, I make my way to the office, where a clearly bored receptionist is working on her manicure.  "Hi."  
  
She lowers the bottle of polish and the look she gives me says that she doesn't appreciate being interrupted.  "Yes?"  
  
"I was wondering if you could help me," I say.  "My boyfriend is thinking of opening a limo service and I'm helping him look for space.  We heard the building across the street used to be a taxi company --"  
  
"That place has been empty for _years_ ," she tells me.  "I been here four and ain't nobody ever used it for nothin'."  
  
For the hell of it, I show her the picture of the GLG sign.  
  
"I don't know," she starts to answer and then stops.  "That must've been taken on a weekend.  Look how empty the street is.  On a weekday, we're fighting for parking spaces."  
  
I look down the street and realize she's right.  There are cars in every available spot, all with varying amounts of body damage and waiting to have the damage assessed or repaired.  
  
"You know who you should ask?"  
  
I wait.  
  
"Velez."  She points upwards towards the ceiling.  "The lawyer upstairs.  He does accident claims.  We all refer business to each other and he's the only one I know who's here all hours of the night, weekends and holidays.   Got to hustle, 'cause what I hear?  Law school ain't cheap and he's but a few years out.  You ain't really looking at the property for your boyfriend, are you?"  
  
That's a good lead and I show my appreciation by pulling a twenty out of my pocket.  "No, I'm not.  I'm a private investigator and I appreciate the information."  
  
"Carla," she supplies, pocketing the twenty.  "I can keep an eye out, let you know if I see anything suspicious."

Of course she will, now that she knows there's money in it.  I hand her my business card and head for the law office upstairs.

I hit the buzzer for 'Velez, Abogado' and wait a good minute before he lets me into the tiny front lobby.  Velez' office is on the third floor and the second floor appears to be vacant, at least according to the buzzers and the empty slot on the mailbox.  I walk up two rickety flights of steps covered with worn industrial carpeting that sticks up in places and could potentially lead to more cases for Velez, Abogado.  
  
"Hola," Velez greets me from the top of the stairs and then switches to, "Hello.  Can I help you?"  He's even younger than Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson.  At least those two are old enough to shave.  I'm iffy about Velez.    
  
"I'm hoping you can."  I flash him the same friendly smile I used on Carla.  "My name's Jessica Jones and I'm a private investigator.  I was wondering if you could tell me about the building across the street."  
  
Velez tenses.  Bingo.  "What about it?"  
  
I show him the picture.  "Have you ever seen this sign?"  
  
"They said they were location scouts," he says nervously.  
  
"They were," I lie.  "One of the workers claims he was injured that day.  Do you remember when you saw them?  Did you see anybody get hurt?"  
  
"Two weeks ago," Velez says slowly.  "There were three of them and they came in a fancy SUV, very unusual for this neighborhood.  I was just getting in to the office and I guess they weren't expecting me."  He pauses and scratches the back of his neck.  "Two of them... Uh, they sort of braced me, asked me where I was going.  When I told them I worked here, they said they were location scouts and asked me to stay out of the way while they got the lighting just right."  He swallows.  "They weren't location scouts, were they?"  
  
I smile and shrug.  "What else can you tell me about them?  Age, coloring?  Were they wearing uniforms?"  
  
"Uh...  They were white, which... uh... In this neighborhood..."  Velez shrugs again.  "Two were about my age.  The other was older.  They were all guys.  Sturdy but not weight lifter types.  I think they were wearing jeans and parkas.  Dark colors, I remember that much."  
  
"Did you see them go inside the building?"  
  
"To be honest, once I got up here, I just focused on my work."  He sighs.  "I haven't seen them since, either."  
  
I pull out one of my cards and hand it to him.  "If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant, call me."  
  
It's a complete waste of a card.  Velez got spooked by whoever these three were.  I thank him anyway and head back out into the street, staring thoughtfully at building number 385.  There are two ways to play this.  I can wait until it's dark or go in now, while there are witnesses.  Like Carla, who's abandoned her manicure to watch me through the window.  While I doubt she'd call the cops, I'd rather not have an audience.  
  
I'd also rather not have to come back to the Bronx.  
  
Not because it's dangerous.  Because the commute is a pain in the ass at night while they're doing track work.  
  
Then again, Stark is getting billed double for my time.    
  
Decision made, I head for the subway and a quick nap in my office.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
  
  
**Hell's Kitchen**  
  
  
  
I wake up panicking, gasping for air and it takes far too long to remember I don't need his permission to breathe.  That I'm the one in control here.  My hands are shaking violently as I wrap my arms around my trembling body and draw my knees to my chest, backing to the far edge of the battered sofa in my waiting room.  
  
"Birch Street," I whisper softly.  "Higgins Drive.  Cobalt Lane."  I keep going until the shaking in my hands stops, until I'm breathing normally again.  Until I'm sure that the monster isn't under the bed or lurking in any dark corners.  I scrub at my face and mutter, "Shit."  And then I realize I'm not alone.  
  
Death is sitting cross-legged on my desk, half in shadows and half bathed in the sickly yellow street lights.  "Want some water?"  
  
"Get the fuck out!" I snarl at him.  
  
"Street names," Death muses, getting to his feet and walking silently into my kitchen.  I hear the sink run and the sound of him rummaging in my kitchen cabinet.  He emerges with a glass of water and holds it out to me.  "My shrinks gave me breathing exercises to do when I have episodes.  Then again, the Asset was conditioned to be mostly nonverbal."  
  
"The Asset?" I take the water and sniff at it, trying to recall whether the stuff coming from the tap is fit for consumption.  
  
"'S what HYDRA called me when they needed to depersonalize me."  He makes air quotes and grimaces as he says the last bit.  "As if all the other shit they did wasn't enough."  
  
I wait for him to ask about the source of my nightmares, about the shit that was done to me.  
  
Instead he shakes his head ruefully and eyes the glass of water in my hand.  "You should drink that."  
  
"Not without boiling it first."  I brush past him and dump the water into the sink, retrieving a fresh bottle from the fridge.  "Want one?"  
  
There's a pause and then he nods, taking it from me.  "If you'd told me during the Depression that people'd pay a dollar or more for water, I'd have laughed in your face."  
  
"Do you hoard string?" I ask, recalling some of my grandmother's more bizarre habits.  She grew up during the Depression too.  "You strike me as the type to hoard shit."  
  
"String," Death echoes and he actually _wrinkles his nose_.  "What the fuck would I do with string?  I mean, yeah, in a pinch I guess I could use it as a garrote.  That's a weird question, Jones."  
  
"That's a weird answer."  
  
"And as for whether I _hoard_ anything, the answer is no," he informs me loftily.  "But I will admit to always having access to a healthy supply of weapons, given the enemies I've made and the company I keep."  
  
"Are you armed now?" I ask, not sure if I want to hear the answer.  
  
Death shrugs.  "Little bit."  He takes a long slow drink of water from the bottle and somehow, Death manages to make the act look like sex.  A sly smile crosses his face when he catches me watching.  "We catching the late show with the bartender tonight?"  
  
I shake my head.  "I've got another case.  Higher priority."  And then it occurs to me that having Death tag along might not be a bad idea.  Especially since he's probably going to follow me anyway.  "The lock to my office is a fucking joke.  How are you with breaking and entering for real?"  
   
"Infiltration's just one of my many skills."  
  
"Of course it is," I mutter, trying to ignore the other implications of that statement as I head over to my laptop to check on Capital JARVIS' progress.  It's no surprise that GLG Taxi's Federal Tax Identification Number is fake and that the sole director and officer doesn't exist.  Someone went to a lot of trouble to create a fake company.  J's message box says he's still analyzing footage to see if a handoff was made and he's also looking at footage to find the trio in the SUV that scared the crap out of Velez, Abogado two weeks ago.  I really like the guy's initiative and I send a message telling him so.  
  
He immediately sends a message thanking me.  
  
Initiative _and_ work ethic.  The guy is a dream.  I tell him where I'm going and to keep an ear out in the unlikely event that I get popped for B &E.  
  
J assures me he will take every step to assure that doesn't happen.  And then he wishes Sergeant Barnes and me luck.  
  
My gaze ticks to the laptop camera and then to Death.  "You know a guy named JARVIS?  Works for Stark?"  
  
Death offers me a Mona Lisa smile.  "Little bit.  Tell him I said hey."  
  
I shrug and type the message and then sign off.  Death gets to my leather jacket before I can get to it, holding it out to me like the gentleman he thinks he is.  Rolling my eyes, I snatch it from his hands, shrug it on and grab my scarf.  "Come on.  The subway's gonna take forever with all the damn track work."  
  
"You're not flying there?"  
  
I flip him off.  "Do I look like fucking Supergirl to you, Jimmy Olsen?"  Go figure Daredevil has such a big fucking mouth.  Next time I see him, I'm going to kick his horned ass.  "Just for that, you can buy your own goddamned MetroCard."  
  
"Already got one, sweetheart."  He flashes it at me, tucks it back in his pocket and then produces a pair of eyeglasses and a freaking clip on nose ring.  "And maybe you should call me Clark Kent."  
  
The mild-mannered assassin.    
  
I'm already regretting bringing him along.  
  
  
  
0000000000000000  
  
  
**385 East 188th Street - AKA The Scene of the Crime**  
  
  
  
  
"Gonna tell me _why_ we're breaking in here?" Barnes asks.  
  
"Sure, just like I've told you every other detail about the case and all about my life up until the minute you breezed into it," Jones mutters.  She grasps the lock in her hand, yanks and snaps it open with no effort whatsoever.  The demonstration of her enhanced strength piques his interest.  "Then we can braid each others' hair and paint our toenails matching colors."  
  
Barnes huffs a laugh.  "I'm partial to purple."  
  
"You fucking would be."  This is followed by the muttered epithet of 'dickhead' proving once again what a charmer Jones is.  
  
And God help him, because Barnes thinks he might actually _be_ charmed.  The alternative is that he's malfunctioning -- badly -- and is in desperate need of recalibration.  "At least tell me what we're looking for."  
  
She stops and stands, hands on hips, taking in the vast empty bays.  "We're looking for any sign that someone was here two weeks ago."  
  
"Okay," he says because tracking is yet another one of his many skills.  "Do we think they were doing anything specific here or do we just want to prove they were here?"  
  
"The latter would be great," Jones tells him.  "The former would fucking fantastic."  
  
"So are we looking for drug dealing?  Murder?"  
  
"No idea," Jones says, pulling out a Maglite.  
  
He grabs her shoulder and pulls her back.  "Hold on, kid.  Lemme show you something."  
  
"Kid?  What're you?  Twenty-eight?"  
  
"Ninety-eight.  I was born in 1917, remember?"  Barnes squeezes the shoulder he's still holding onto.  "Now stop busting my balls and let me teach you something, wiseass."  He gestures towards the empty garage with his left hand.  The metal plates click and whir and the sound echoes softly.  "Break the room down into four foot squares and search each one.  It takes longer but it's methodical, it's thorough and it's never failed me when I've had to track a target."  
  
The look she turns on him is troubled and of course it is.  He just reminded her that he's the Winter Soldier.  HYDRA's mindless killing machine.  
  
Barnes clears his throat.  "You want the north end or the south end?"  
  
"North."  
  
He wants to tell her that he won't hurt her.  Would never hurt her.  Ever.  That he's here to protect her.  Because Jones would love hearing _that_.  Instead, he speaks her language.  "Try not to fuck up the trail while you're fumbling around like a goddamned amateur."  
  
"Fuck you, Barnes."  
  
"In your dreams, Jones."  And maybe, just maybe, his too.  
  
  
  
  
0000000000000000  
  
  
  
**A Very Long Time Later on the Downtown Bound 2 Train**  
  
  
  
  
"Three guys," Death muses.  "And one of 'em used the bathroom."  
  
I reach over and yank off his fake nose ring but it's not as satisfying as pulling off a real one.  It's even less satisfying knowing that he let me.   Finding proof that the three guys Velez, Abogado saw were actually there isn't enough to break the case wide open but it's tangible proof that someone went to a lot of trouble to steal those blueprints.  They arranged a fake cab to be in the right place at the right time, created a fake cab company and killed two people.  
  
All of this begs the question, what the fuck was in those plans that they're worth killing for?  
  
Hill didn't say and I didn't pry at the time.  That time is past.  
  
"Earth to Jones."  
  
"Shut up, I'm thinking."  
  
Death rolls his eyes at me.  "What's next?"  
  
"What's next," I tell him, "is catching some sleep and following up on my other leads."  
  
"Oh, there's other leads?  Do they involve spending hours looking for disturbed dust, too?"  Death, it seems, is determined to be a shit.  "If we use shoe size to indicate height --"  
  
"We're looking for two guys of average height and one guy over six feet tall."  I recall Velez' description.  "Sturdy, but not weight lifter types.  White.  Two in their mid-twenties, one older."  
  
Death raises an eyebrow.  "Names?"  
  
"No."  I lean back and think about the puzzle pieces that aren't fitting together yet.  "They came in a shiny black SUV.  No.  Scratch that.  It was a fancy SUV, color undetermined.  And they covered up the signage to create the illusion that a business was being run out of that building.  They could've just doctored a photo.  Why would they go through all the trouble?"  
  
"Because there are ways to tell a photo was doctored," Death says.  "But what's the likelihood someone's gonna go all the way up to the Bronx to check whether the business was really there?"  
  
I turn in my seat.  "You ever see that done before?"  
  
He closes his eyes, looking for all the world like he's sifting through scraps of memories.  Knowing what I do about how badly HYDRA fucked with his memories, he probably is.  "Stevie could tell you," Barnes says finally, opening his eyes.  "We got bad intel about a HYDRA codebreaking facility being operated out of...  Someplace it wasn't.  The Howlies went in and ended up almost killing a bunch of nuns.  Nuns?  I think it was nuns."  The smile he flashes me is brittle.  "Sorry.  HYDRA fucked with my memories but good.  For all I know, I'm telling you the plot of some shitty movie Stevie dragged me to see back in the day."  
  
Not knowing what else to do after hearing all that and not wanting to tell him about me, I hold out his nose ring.  
  
"Keep it," Barnes tells me, flashing a wolfish smile.  "Think of it as a friendship ring or whatever you kids do these days."  
  
"Ever hear of friends with benefits, Barnes?"  
  
"Ever hear of the friend zone, Jones?"  
  
Death may be the funniest nonagenarian I've ever met.  And worse, I think he might be my second Watson on this case.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  
Chapter 5  
  
  
  
**A Few Blocks From the Office of Alias Investigations**  
  
  
  
  
Barnes is on his way to pick up coffee and breakfast while giving Jones the privacy to take a shower when his cell phone rings.  He sees who the caller is and lets it ring a second time while he works up the nerve to answer.  "Hi, Aunt May."  
  
"I know you're a grown man," she begins almost shyly, "but do you think you could leave me a note when you go out in the middle of the night so that I don't worry quite so much?"  
  
At least she didn't use the word 'sneak' because what he's been doing is _sneaking_ out and that's what makes it so embarrassing.  Aunt May is right and so was Petey.  He's a grown man.  A member of the Parker household.  Who should not be sneaking out windows.   He backs up against a dry cleaner's window because it gives him an unfettered view of his surroundings.  "I'm sorry --"  
  
"You've nothing to be sorry about," Aunt May cuts him off and then sighs.  "I'm the one who's being overprotective.  You're an adult and I'm treating you as if you were Peter's age.  Will you forgive me?"  
  
"Forgive you?" Barnes echoes.  "I'm the one who climbed out the window like a thief."  He feels like a complete jerk as he admits, "I've been sneaking out for a few days now."  
  
"I know."  
  
Because, of course she does.  "I'll leave a note next time."  
  
"And use the front door, like a civilized person?"  
  
"I'll try," he offers.  
  
"I can live with that."  And just as Barnes start to relax, Aunt May says, "Peter mentioned that you've been visiting a... friend.  Are you being careful, Bucky?"  
  
Barnes grins at the motherly concern for his safety.  "I'm always careful, Aunt May."  
  
"That's..." She takes a deep breath.  "I mean, are you carrying protection?"  
  
At first he thinks she's referring to the SIG Sauer and the handful of knives he's got secreted under his clothes but then he realizes Aunt May means something _completely_ different.  Barnes feels his face burn hot enough to melt steel.  "Uh..."  
  
"Do you..."  Aunt May clears her throat.  "Do you need me to explain anything to you?"  
  
"I..."  The only way this could be _more_ embarrassing would be if Petey were the one he was having this conversation with.  "I know about the birds and the bees, Aunt May."  
  
There's a small splutter on the other end of the call.  "I meant about birth control."  
  
"They had..."  Christ, he can't bring himself to say the word 'rubbers' to Aunt May.  "Stuff in my day."  And then he remembers the polite slang.  "French letters."  
  
"There are new things," Aunt May soldiers on.  "Pills --"  
  
"Pills?" Barnes repeats incredulously.  
  
"For women.  They prevent pregnancy but they don't prevent sexually transmitted diseases.  And there are a few of _those_ that you might not be aware of beyond what the Army taught you back in the day," she goes on.  "Condoms are the most foolproof method of avoiding unplanned pregnancies and STDs.  Other than abstinence, of course."    
  
This is possibly the most surreal conversation he's ever had and he's spoken to Darcy Lewis.  "Um...  Okay."  
  
"Okay."  
  
There's a long, awkward pause.  "I'm not doing anything."  
  
"It's none of my business if you are," Aunt May says quickly.  "You're not a teenage boy, so if it's shenanigans you're planning on getting up to, go right ahead.  Just practice _safe_ shenanigans.  And if you have questions, you can talk to me.  You don't have to be embarrassed.  I've been known to have sex a time or two in my life --"  
  
"Oh my God, stop!"  
  
"Well, it's not like you can discuss this with Steve," she goes on and he can hear the laughter in her voice now.  "In fact, I think I might have to have this little talk with him, too."  
  
Despite himself, Barnes snorts a laugh at the thought of Stevie being put through this exact conversation.  
  
"Will you be home for supper?"  
  
"I think so," Barnes says and in a flash of inspiration, he adds, "If not, I'll send you a text."  
  
"That's my sweet, considerate boy," she approves.  "Love you, sweetheart."  
  
"Love you, too," Barnes manages to get out before ending the call.  It takes him nearly two whole minutes to recover and finish picking up breakfast.  
  
  
  
  
**The Offices of Alias Investigations**  
  
  
  
  
Capital JARVIS is the most helpful person I've ever met.  He's still compiling and analyzing footage from security cameras to look for a handoff that may not have even happened as well as looking for the needle in a haystack also known as the 'fancy SUV' that visited 385 East 188th Street.  And now I've got him requesting a meeting with Hill about the blueprints.  The guy does the work of an entire investigative team and I'm going to make sure Hill knows just how hard he's been working.  
  
Now that the cab driver is officially a dead end, I have two other directions to take;  the mystery woman who claimed Alford's body and Alford himself.  I decide to start with the mystery woman because I have a feeling that lead is getting colder by the second.  Of course JARVIS is able to produce the paperwork in under a minute.  McManus Funeral Home in the East Village picked up the body at the direction of Alford's sister, Patricia, who of course doesn't exist.  McManus Funeral Home _does_ exist but just to be sure, I double check the address on the paper work with the address in Google.  Then, for the hell of it, I check the address against the New York State tax database and I even find a couple of lawsuits against the place.   I breathe a sigh of relief.  Hopefully, this trail leads to something.  
  
I'm searching for any possible leads on Patricia Alford when Barnes struts in, carrying a huge shopping bag full of breakfast.  "Get any for me?"  
  
Seeing Death blush may very well be the highlight of my day.  He ducks his head and mumbles something about a super soldier metabolism before raising his head slightly to ask, "How about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
He straightens up completely and cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Jones," Death sighs, "You fly.  You snapped a lock like it was made out of toothpicks.  And the amount of booze you put away...  You have an enhanced metabolism."  
  
"I'm not discussing this --" I begin and it's not only because I haven't even considered the idea, either.  
  
"Then don't.  Eat your goddamn breakfast.  Just do me a favor."  He gets into my space, eyes narrowed.  "Don't sit there and pretend you don't need to eat as much as you probably do.  I'm already dealing with one pain in the ass on that score."  
  
It takes me a second to catch on.  "Spider-kid?  Not only do you tuck him in but you make sure he eats balanced meals?!"  
  
"And gets good grades," Death shrugs.  "He's a punk kid.  What the hell does he know about taking proper care of himself and worrying about his future?"  
  
"I knew it!" I crow triumphantly.  "You live with him!  The Winter-goddamn-Soldier lives in fucking _Queens_ with Spider-kid!"  
  
"I live with him," Barnes admits grudgingly.  "In fucking Queens."  
  
That's when it hits me.  The hug in #WinterSoldierSnuggles wasn't a one-time thing.  Couple that with the serious dad-vibes Death is giving off and it would be adorable, if I ever used the word 'adorable'.  I decide to back off the topic before we have to start exchanging secrets.  "Well, are you planning on actually giving me the fucking food so I can eat it?"  
  
"You planning on filling me in about the case?"  
  
I blow out an exasperated sigh.  "My clients expect confidentiality."  
  
"Your client gave you access to JARVIS, so it's pretty damn obvious you're working for Stark."  
  
"Sergeant Barnes is correct," comes the voice of Capital JARVIS from my laptop and scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.  "I've granted him clearance on this matter.  You may share information with him at your discretion, Ms. Jones."  
  
"I really hate when you do that," I snap at JARVIS.  
  
"Would you prefer a warning next time?  Perhaps something like this?"  There's a soft chime.  
  
Apparently, it's impossible to be ticked off at JARVIS.  Hell, the guy's practically earned the right to capitalize his name or call himself a symbol, given just how good he is.  "That'd be great."  
  
Barnes starts arranging a giant pile of breakfast sandwiches on my desk.  "Looks like we're gonna have a working breakfast, huh?"  
  
My eyes tick from Barnes to the laptop.  "It's like the two of you are in cahoots."  
  
"Sometimes, it's just a coincidence, Jones."  
  
And sometimes, I think, it's abso-fucking-lutely not.  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000000  
  
  
**McManus Funeral Home - Avenue A and East 9th Street**  
  
  
  
  
Barnes is sure he's been in funeral homes before this.  There's something uncomfortably familiar about the sickly sweet smell of carnations over cloying chemical odors and artificially scented air fresheners that barely mask the lingering smell of formaldehyde and decomposing bodies.  He's in full hipster guise with the nose ring that Jones insisted he wear, along with a frayed scarf she loaned him to drape around his neck.  They almost look like they could be a couple, he thinks as he catches their reflection when they pass a large mounted mirror on the way to the funeral director's office.  
  
Jones identifies herself as a private investigator to the man who introduces himself as Mario Martelo, no relation to the McManuses.  She doesn't bother introducing Barnes.  
  
"I understand your need for discretion," Jones begins and it's amazing how she sounds so smooth and professional, not at all like her usual self.  "But --"  
  
"I don't suppose you'd like to claim the remains of Mr. Alford?" Martelo cuts her off, looking both hopeful and predatory.  He's in his late forties, balding and with a body that's going to fat but is concealed with a well-cut black suit.  
  
If Jones is thrown by the question, she doesn't let it show.  "Are they ready to be picked up?"  
  
"They are."  Martelo reaches into a drawer of his immaculate cherry wood desk and produces a folder that he lays atop the carefully polished surface.  "The number Ms. Alford gave me is disconnected.  The address she gave me doesn't exist, at least according to Google maps.  And the credit card she gave me was declined when I put it through for the remainder of the charges this morning.  I've also been notified that MasterCard is canceling their authorization for the deposit."  
  
"I'm in the process of locating Mr. Alford's mother," Jones lies.  "She's the beneficiary on the life insurance policy from his employer and unfortunately, we think she's in a nursing home.  We just don't know which one and under what name.  I'd be happy to tell her to contact you about finalizing the arrangements."  She stares pointedly at the folder on the desk.  
  
The mention of money is all it takes for Martelo to get to his feet.  "Let me make you a copy, Ms. Jones.  I'll be right back."  
  
Barnes waits until he hears Martelo's footsteps retreat into an office down the hall and the sound of a photocopier working.  Then he turns to Jones, who's eyeing the small security camera in the upper east corner of the room.  "Think he's got video of her?"  
  
Jones doesn't answer and it's just as well because Martelo is back and handing her a copy of the paperwork.  She quickly flips through it, noting the Connecticut address for Patricia Alford.  "She made the arrangements by phone."  
  
"That's not unusual," Martelo says.  "Particularly in cases of cremations."  
  
And that, Barnes thinks, is that for his brilliant future career as a private eye.  
  
Jones thanks Martelo for his time and she folds the papers, stuffing them inside her jacket once they're outside.  She looks up at Barnes and scowls.  "Fuck me sideways, Barnes.  I'm coming up empty on this one."  
  
"Phone records," Barnes says.  He's never done the legwork himself, but he vaguely recalls it being done in a mission to locate...  To locate...  The details, he decides, aren't important.  "You have some idea of what time she called in because he ran the credit card around then.  I can't imagine this place has a lot of incoming calls."  
  
"Looks like another job for Capital JARVIS," she says, pulling out her phone and snapping a photo of the credit card authorization.  "The guy can hack everything, apparently."  
  
"Capital JARVIS?"  
  
"What else do you call a guy who spells his name in all caps?"  
  
It hits Barnes that she thinks JARVIS is a _person_ and that in turn strikes him as hilarious.  
  
"What the fuck is so funny?"  
  
"Great nickname, Jones.  Very clever."  He'll tell her.  Eventually.  "So, what's next?"  
  
"Next," Jones says, stuffing her phone back in her pocket, "we find out everything we can about the only actual goddamn person in the whole fucking case."  
  
"Alford."  
  
"Damn straight," she says.  "Lose the nose ring, Barnes.  We're going to the respectable Meatpacking District."  
  
"It's respectable there now?"  
  
She rolls her eyes.  "Of course not.  It's just a lot more fucking expensive."  
  
"Guess I'm just an innocent babe when it comes to all this modern shit, Jones," Barnes shoots back.  "Good thing I've got you lookin' out for me."  As an afterthought, he asks, "Do they still pack meat there?"  
  
"Only in the nightclubs, Barnes."  He must look confused because she feels compelled to clarify, "Sex.  In the bathrooms."  
  
"That's..."  Disgusting, is what he wants to say.  What he actually says is, "Interesting."  
  
"Not something they did in your day?"  
  
"Had to leave room for Jesus when you were slow dancin' with a dame, Jones."  He clucks his tongue.  "Bathroom sex.  You kids today have no finesse."  
  
"Forget it, Barnes.  I'm not asking about the prehistoric lovemaking rituals you performed before they moved out of the caves."  
  
"Why would you, Jones?  You know everything."  
  
It doesn't surprise him at all when she flips him off.  In fact, he thinks he kind of likes it.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
  
  
  
**The Respectable Meatpacking District**  
  
  
  
Death is uncharacteristically quiet during our walk from the L train stop at Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street.  His eyes are in constant motion and I'm pretty sure he's using his other enhanced super soldier senses to identify potential threats.  Everything about Barnes screams 'don't fuck with me' so effectively that people give us a wide berth on the sidewalk.  Even the guys begging for spare change leave us alone.  Barnes pauses in front of a guy with a sign that reads 'homeless veteran' and shoves a twenty dollar bill in the guy's cup before resuming his Death-strut along Fourteenth Street.  
  
At Ninth Avenue, we turn left towards Gansevoort Street, passing the overpriced bars and restaurants and the ridiculously expensive boutiques that line MePa's streets.  Barnes slows down to gawk at the window display as we approach a fancy European lingerie shop that sells thongs that cost over a hundred and fifty dollars.    
  
"No wonder people are screwing in bathrooms," Barnes says and he actually looks annoyed as a mother goes past pushing a double-wide stroller.  "They put this stuff where _kids_ can see it."  
  
"I'm pretty sure they had sexy lingerie back in your day," I tell him.  
  
"Yeah, but they didn't have it all out in the open."    
  
I resolve then and there to take him past the Pink Pussycat and the other sex shops on West 4th Street.  "You really need to get out of Queens once in a while, Barnes."  
  
He squints at the display.  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  They want almost three hundred bucks for a brassiere?  For that much, the thing should have a fucking force field to prevent the dame from getting knocked up."  
  
I can't disagree with him on that one.    
  
With a sigh, he resumes walking only to stop in front of the Hugo Boss boutique and emit a fucking _growl_.  "How is this Nazi motherfucker still in business, let alone selling his shit in America?"  
  
"Barnes --"  
  
"He used POWs as slave labor to make the uniforms for the Nazis and HYDRA," Barnes goes on.  "I personally dynamited a couple of his fucking factories with the Howlies."  
  
"Are you sure," I ask mostly to distract him because he looks like he's thinking of dynamiting the boutique, "or are you remembering the plot of a shitty movie you saw with your pal, Stevie?"  
  
His eyes narrow.  "I'm very fucking sure."  And then he _spits_ on the storefront.    
  
"Jesus Christ, Barnes!  Are you out of your goddamned mind?!"  I grab his arm and drag him away.   "The war ended --"  
  
"Don't lecture me on this, Jones," he snaps, eyes blazing.  "You wanna tell me it's ancient history, you do it after you read how Boss treated the prisoners."  
  
"Okay," I tell him, taking care to speak softly and not set him off any further.    
  
He blinks and I swear that for a second, Barnes actually looks _terrified_.  "Sorry."  
  
"I take it back."  
  
Barnes looks at me with a quizzical expression.  
  
"I think you should stay the fuck in Queens from now on."  
  
  
  
00000000000000

 **The Offices of Kirkland Associates, MePa**  
  
  
Barnes keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the walk to the small office building on Gansevoort street.  He doesn't way a word about the crazy shit that women seem to be wearing these days and the ridiculous prices they pay for it.  Nor does he ask what happened to the meatpacking places where he used to be able to charm the butchers into selling him scraps of stew beef or a good marrow bone for soup for practically nothing so that Stevie could get some decent food in him.  Funny how he remembers that when he barely remembers so much else.  
  
Kirkland Associates, the architectural firm where the dead guy worked, is located in one of the renovated buildings.  The space is small, but Barnes has to admit, the office is nice.  It's open and airy.  Modern, with lots of glass and light, it's the opposite of the dank space this building used to be, where cows and pigs were hung on hooks and butchered.  
  
The receptionist is made up like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine with not a bleached blonde hair out of place.  Barnes instantly recognizes her sweater as one that he just saw in the window of a boutique called Scoop.  She regards the pair of them with open hostility.  "Can I help you?"  
  
"My name is Jessica Jones and I'm a private investigator," Jones says in sugar-sweet tones.  "I'd like to speak to Mister Kirkland."  
  
"Do you have an appointment?" the blonde asks frostily.  
  
"It's in reference to Corwin Alford."  
  
"Do you have an appointment?" the blonde repeats with a glare.  
  
Barnes decides to show her what a glare really looks like.  
  
The receptionist pales.  
  
Jones, bless her, doesn't bat an eye or even look over her shoulder at him to see what he's doing.  "We just need a few minutes of his time.  Be a dear and let him know we're here, won't you?"  
  
With a hasty nod, the receptionist stomps out on her red-soled overpriced pumps.  
  
Now Jones turns but Barnes is doing his best impression of a perfectly harmless visitor.  She rolls her eyes at him and turns back to face the returning receptionist.  
  
"Follow me," the bleached blonde says grudgingly and leads them to a conference room.  "Mr. Kirkland will be with you in a moment."  
  
Barnes idly notes all the flaws in the security, from the poorly positioned cameras to the glass inner walls of the conference room, which aren't even frosted for the illusion of confidentiality.  Not that it matters, the walls are so thin.  He cuts his eyes over to Jones and is pleased to see she's also cataloguing the location of the cameras.    
  
She catches him looking at her.  
  
He nods approvingly.  
  
Jones rolls her eyes.  
  
Barnes would roll his in response but he hears an office door open and footsteps coming closer.  He tenses automatically until he sees the guy.  Threat level non-existent except for the vague possibility of Kirkland stabbing them with the mechanical pencil in his shirt pocket.  
  
"John Kirkland," the man introduces himself, extending a hand to Barnes.  He's in his fifties, below optimal weight and dressed in what Barnes has come to recognize as the local trendy uniform of thick black plastic eyeglass frames, a black polo shirt, jeans and sneakers.  His head is shaved to conceal Kirkland's receding hairline and of course he's got a damn goatee to compensate for the lack of hair on the top of his head.  
  
"James Reilly."  
  
Jones thrusts her hand under Kirkland's nose.  "Jessica Jones, private investigator and Reilly's boss."  
  
Barnes barely manages to suppress a smile at the way she just put the guy in his place.  Mary Jane Watson gave him an earful about sexism very early on, explaining that while his old-timey words and manners were adorable, certain phrases and behaviors just ain't tolerated in today's society.  Jones, Barnes thinks, just clued Kirkland in to that fact.  
  
Now that she has Kirkland's undivided attention, Jones goes on.  "I'm not sure if you're aware but the blueprints that Corwin Alford was working on with Stark Industries have gone missing --"  
  
"We save everything digitally, Miss Jones," Kirkland interrupts eagerly.  "All the SI people had to do was ask for another copy --"  
  
"Except the copy that's missing," Jones cuts him off, "has security specs and tweaks that were discussed in the meeting Alford had with SI's Head of Security.  I don't suppose I have to tell you how sensitive that information is, do I?"  The last is stated in such a condescending  tone that it's impossible not to tell she thinks she does.   She eyes Kirkland and goes on.  "The blueprints weren't recovered from the scene and where things really take an interesting turn is that Alford's body was claimed by his sister.  Newsflash: Alford doesn't have a sister.  Any idea who the mystery lady might be?"  
  
Kirkland knows something because his eyes dart to his left.  Towards the front of the office.  Towards the bitchy receptionist.  
  
Barnes doesn't even bother to hide his smirk.  
  
Kirkland turns to Barnes, apparently in hope of finding a more sympathetic ally.  He is sadly mistaken.  "N-not that I'm aware of."  
  
"Really?" Barnes asks, injecting both withering sarcasm and a lot of Brooklyn into his voice.  "He wasn't playing hide the slide rule with the broad up front?"  
  
Kirkland sucks in air, chokes and starts coughing.  
  
"You'll have to excuse my idiot _trainee_ ," Jones says quickly, shooting Barnes the evil eye.  "He's got a lot to learn."  
  
Barnes does his best to look innocent and shrugs.  
  
"Anything else you could tell us about Mr. Alford that might help us identify the mystery woman would be very helpful," she adds.  
  
"Cor never talked much about his personal life," Kirkland says, casting a nervous glance in Barnes' direction.  "His relationship with Tara included."  He pronounces the name as 'Tah-rah' and Barnes is almost positive she adopted the posher sounding pronunciation around the same time she discovered hair dye.  
  
Jones' tone is soft as she asks, "Do you know when they started seeing each other?"  
  
"She's only been with the company three months, so I'd say it was fairly recently.  At least, within that period."  
  
"Did he have any hobbies or belong to any groups or clubs?"  
  
"The usual architecture groups," Kirkland shrugs.  "And we all pretty much have to know how to play golf.  Cor hated golf so I wouldn't call that a hobby.  He worked out a couple of times a week and always ate healthy..."  He trails off.  "I think his father died of a heart attack when he was Cor's age."  
  
Jones pulls a business card from her pocket.  "Thanks for your time.  If the blueprints should be returned by a good samaritan or whatever, let me know."  
  
Kirkland looks relieved, shaking Barnes' hand profusely as he walks them to the door.  
  
Barnes grabs Jones by the wrist and pulls her around the corner and into the vestibule of an overpriced fusion restaurant, whatever that might be.  "That Tara bitch is HYDRA."  
  
"She's definitely involved in whatever's going on," Jones agrees though he notices she stops short at concluding the woman is HYDRA.  "And she's either going to bolt or she's going to finish out the day.   I hate doing a stakeout in broad daylight but it looks like we don't have a choice.  Either way, I want to get her outside the office when she's least expecting it."  
  
"You might wanna ask Capital JARVIS if he's got anything on her," Barnes suggests.  
  
Jones already has her phone out.  "I'm also going to tell him to let Hill know that I have concerns about the security of their blueprints on that network.  And did you get a load of their physical security?  A kid with a penknife could break in there and rob all their pocket protectors."  
  
Barnes smiles.  "Did I do okay for an idiot trainee?"  
  
"Yeah, Reilly, you did.  I couldn't have spooked him better myself.  But next time, you're the good cop.  I hate being nice to sexist assholes."  
  
"So do I."  
  
"Barnes, you're practically a walking advertisement for sexism, what with all the 'doll' and 'sweetheart' and the fucking 'broad' bullshit."  
  
"What can I say, Jones?" Barnes smirks.  "You bring out the best in me."  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
  
**Midtown High School Student Cafeteria**  
  
  
  
  
  
Mary Jane is staring wide-eyed at Peter.  "You're kidding."  
  
"No, I think Aunt May really did it."  Peter leans further across the table and lowers his voice.  "You should have seen the look on her face when I told her Bucky was sneaking out at night to see that Jones lady."  
  
Mary Jane bursts into laughter.  "Poor Bucky!  She gave him 'the Talk.'"  
  
"Maybe not," Peter says, scratching at the back of his neck.  "I mean, he's an adult, for goodness sake --"  
  
"True," she agrees, "but HIV, AIDS and HPV weren't a thing when Bucky first started doing the deed.  And now there's the patch, the Pill, IUDs --"  
  
"Would you stop?  I'm eating!"  
  
"You're blushing, is what you're doing."  Mary Jane sits up.  "So figure Aunt May didn't give him the sex talk so much as she gave him the safe sex talk.  And I bet he was freaking so badly he didn't listen.  You know what we should do?"  
  
"If it involves making Bucky sit through those videos we had to watch in health class, forget it," Peter says firmly.  "I don't care if they _are_ on YouTube.  Once was enough."  
  
"No, dummy.  We should get him some pamphlets from the Guidance office."  
  
"Because that won't make him feel awkward and condescended to at all."  
  
"He needs to know this stuff," Mary Jane insists.  "For a guy who's recovering from seven decades of brainwashing, he's been getting around."  She starts ticking off on her fingers.  "There was Storm, then Darcy and now that detective.  All in just a couple of months."  
  
"Bucky didn't actually go out with Darcy," Peter says, leaping to Bucky's defense.  "They flirted a little and she came on too strong and I think it freaked him out.  He's still pretty fragile, no matter what he wants everybody to think."  
  
Mary Jane considers this.  "Which is why it's so interesting that he's the one initiating this.  Storm was the one who initiated that little fling, right?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"And Aunt May tried to set him up with Darcy, who immediately pounced on Bucky."  
  
"Yeah..."    
  
"But now _he's_ the one sneaking out of the house at all hours to see this Jessica Jones."  She smiles brightly.  "That's huge for him.  Seriously huge.  Think about all the milestones --"  
  
"Milestones?" Peter echoes.  
  
"Therapist speak.  I still have my sessions with Tony.  He's surprisingly fun when you get him outside of the Tower and away from his toys," Mary Jane says.  "The thing is, Bucky decided he wanted to go out on his own.  Not with you.  Not with Steve.  He hasn't done that since you brought him into your house.  Independence is a huge leap forward for him.  And think about the confidence to not just leave the house but to go into Manhattan and do whatever he's doing with that woman.  Instead of being worried, you should be proud of him."  
  
Peter's shoulders slump.  Mary Jane is right.  She's _always_ right. That's the first rule of being her boyfriend.  "I am.  It's just... I do worry."  
  
"Just like he worries about you," she agrees.  "And if you're really worried, you'll give him those pamphlets."  
  
"He's a super soldier," Peter reminds her.  
  
"He can be an _informed_ super soldier."  
  
Peter decides to adhere to the first rule of being Mary Jane's boyfriend.  "Okay.  You're right.  I'll get the pamphlets."  
  
He's still going to worry.  



	7. Chapter 7

 

 

*** The author would like to thank IamAtlas whose comment in Chapter 6 inspired the first section of this chapter ***

 

Chapter 7  
  
  
  
**Midtown High School - Guidance Counselor's Office**  
  
  
  
"Please be busy, please be busy," Peter repeats under his breath like a mantra.  It's still lunch period and everyone is either in the cafeteria or out in the yard.  All he has to do is slip into Ms. Hester's office, grab the pamphlets and slip out again.  He's spied on the _Kingpin_ without anyone noticing.  This is going to be a proverbial piece of cake.  He hopes.  
  
Luck is with him, for a change.  The door to Ms. Hester's office is closed and there's nobody in the waiting area.  He can hear Ms. Hester talking to someone behind the closed door and if he concentrates, like Matt practiced with him, he could probably hear every word.  But he won't.  He has better things to do than eavesdrop.  
  
The Planned Parenthood pamphlets are carefully stacked on a table off to the side.  Peter snatches up copies of Facts About Birth Control, Your Contraceptive Choices, How to Protect Yourself from HIV/AIDS, Sexually Transmitted Infections, What You Should Know About Herpes, Genital Warts - Questions and Answers and What You Should Know About Safer Sex.  He's adding a copy of The Truth About Unhealthy Relationships to his pile when Ms. Hester's door opens.  The stack of pamphlets drops to the floor just as a senior girl who has obviously been crying walks out.     
  
Peter is crouching and hastily gathering up the pamphlets when Ms. Hester's sensible pumps come into view.  "Um..." he stammers.  "Uh... Hi?"  
  
"That's an interesting bit of reading, Peter," Ms. Hester says.  She's using her Guidance Counselor voice.  It's the same voice she used when she tried to get Peter to talk about his feelings after Uncle Ben died and after that time he lost his cool about the effectiveness of the criminal justice system in social studies.  "Why don't you come into my office for a moment and we can catch up for a bit?"  
  
"Uh..."  Oh God.  Think, Parker.  Think!  "I have class," he attempts.  
  
"There's ten minutes left in the period," Ms. Hester tells him.  "Come."  
  
Defeated, Peter sighs, "Sure."  
  
His backpack is in his locker, which is just around the corner from Ms. Hester's office.  It should have been a piece of cake.  In. Out.  Run to locker, stuff pamphlets in backpack and nobody would be the wiser.  
  
He should have known the Ol' Parker Luck would run true to form eventually.  
  
Ms. Hester is probably a good guidance counselor.  She's in her forties, Peter thinks, and she seems pretty nice.  There are pictures on her desk of her family and her dogs.  Posters are hung on the walls of her office and each has an inspirational saying.  The bookcase to the right of her desk is filled with books about teen health, teen mental health, more pamphlets about things like depression and eating disorders and the Fishbowl.  The Fishbowl is a running joke with the students.  It's _filled_ with condoms.  
  
Peter finds himself staring at the Fishbowl.  It's possibly the _biggest_ fishbowl he's ever seen.  At least twice the size of a standard gallon fishbowl, he thinks.  And then he finds himself wondering just how many condoms are in there.  Maybe Ms. Hester should have a contest.  Guess the correct number of condoms and --  Ugh!  Peter shudders and wrenches his gaze away to look at Ms. Hester.  
  
She's absolutely emotionless.  "Is there anything you need to discuss, Peter?"  
  
"No, ma'am."  
  
"I think it's wonderful that you're taking safe sex so seriously --"  
  
"I'm not!" Peter blurts and blushes even harder.  "I mean, I do but I'm not having, uh, you know.  These are for a friend."   Why can't the floor open up and swallow him?  Why can't aliens attack?  Or any of his enemies?  Or even _Steve's_ enemies?  Anything would be preferable to having this conversation.    
  
Ms. Hester doesn't even acknowledge his protest.  She just keeps going and of course she does.  How many of these conversations about fictitious friends has she had?  "Regardless of whether you're actually having sex or talking about it with your partner, it's good that you're considering how to proceed safely.  Do you have condoms, Peter?"  
  
"Do I...?  No!  I mean, yes!"  He groans and buries his face in his hand.  
  
He can hear Ms. Hester's chair squeak and then there's an echoey rustling sound.    
  
The next thing he knows, she's shoving a rather alarming amount of condoms into his other hand.  They spill onto his lap.  God, there must be about twenty of the things and they're all different varieties.  Peter thinks he might actually start hyperventilating.  
  
"I couldn't help but notice that you took a number of pamphlets about STDs," Ms. Hester goes on.  "If you'd like, I can make an appointment for you at Planned Parenthood to be tested."  
  
Peter can't form words.  All he can do is emit a helpless squeak.  
  
The next thing he knows, she's typing on her computer and then the printer on the window sill hums.  Ms. Hester pulls a printed sheet with the address for the Diane L. Max Health Center and an appointment for four p.m.  
  
And then, blessedly, the bell rings to signal the end of his lunch period.  
  
There's nothing else to do but take the paper, the condoms, the pamphlets and the remains of his dignity and run like a bat out of hell before anyone notices what he's carrying.  
  
Of course he's not that lucky.  
  
Why would he be, when Flash Thompson's locker is two doors down from his?    
  
Everything feels like it happens in slow motion.  
  
Flash kicks him from behind and Peter can't dodge it, despite his Spidey sense blaring a warning because there might be at least two people who don't know he's Spider-man in the school and he has a secret identity to protect.  
  
The pamphlets, the condoms and the appointment sheet go flying.  
  
Flash and his idiot friends laugh their stupid heads off.  
  
Liz Allen takes a picture which she immediately posts to every form of social media imaginable where it instantly goes viral.  
  
Mary Jane is standing next to Liz wearing an expression that can only be described as 'mortified'.  
  
And the bell rings.  
  
He's late for class.  
  
The Ol' Parker Luck.  
  
It never lets him down.  
  
  
  
00000000000000000  
  
  
**Great Gotham Microbrewery - MePa**  
  
  
  
  
"Craft beer," Death says with a moue of distaste.  "This century's answer to bathtub gin for twelve bucks a glass."  
  
We're sitting at a table which not only gives us a perfect view of the building where Kirkland Associates is located but also meets Death's highly exacting standards for a view of the entrance and a defensible position.   He actually started explaining those standards to me until I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn't give a shit.  
  
I don't bother looking at him when I say, "I'm expensing it, so stop fucking complaining."  
  
"Twelve bucks --"  
  
"Yes, _grandpa_.  Maybe you'd like to tell me about your string collection while we wait for Tara to make her move."  
  
There's a moment where I think he might actually flip me off.  "What the fuck is it with you and string, Jones?"  
  
"My grandmother," I say, glancing at him for the briefest of seconds, "grew up during the Depression.  She had this thing about saving string.  And gift wrap --"  
  
"Gift wrap is fucking wasteful," Barnes declares.  
  
"I'll bet you return your bottles for the deposits, don't you?"  
  
He actually looks offended.  "Don't you?"  
  
Busting his balls is turning into my new favorite pastime.  "No deposit on bottles of bourbon, Barnes."  
  
Instead of snarking back to me, he's focusing on an SUV that's coming slowly up Gansevoort Street.  There's something about the way it's moving that makes me think the driver isn't looking for a parking spot.  On nothing more than a hunch, I pull some cash out of my jeans and throw it on the table.  
  
The SUV comes up parallel with Kirkland Associates, pauses and then, with squealing tires, takes off.  
  
Barnes tackles me to the floor just as the world explodes.  The glass from the microbrewery's front window rains down on us.  Or, more precisely, on Barnes who's shielding my body with his.  
  
Death shouldn't smell that good.  
  
His lips curve into a smile as his eyes lock onto mine.  "Told you it was HYDRA."  
  
I shove him off of me and rise shakily to my knees.  Everything sounds like it's coming from far away and there's an acrid, burning stench in the air.  "You don't have proof --"  
  
"Sure I do," Barnes says, bouncing up to his feet and pulling a gun out of thin air.  "There's a retrieval team coming this way.  Guess who they want to retrieve, Jones?  Here's a hint; it ain't you."  
  
He pulls me to all the way to my feet just in time for me to see a dozen guys in black tac suits charging towards the microbrewery.  They're all heavily armed.  
  
I look to my left and then to my right.  There are innocent civilians -- tourists, shoppers and people who work in the area -- about to get caught in the crossfire.  
  
I hate flying.  
  
I really do.  
  
And I've never tried it carrying a super soldier.  
  
I've also never been shot at by that many guns.  
  
Barnes apparently has because he's _shooting back_ as we make our escape.  
  
I really have to find out what the fuck was in those blueprints.  
  
  
  
0000000000000  
  
  
  
  
**Midtown High School - End of 9th Period (AKA 2:48pm)**  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve's motorcycle is idling as he watches the kids leave school for the day.  Mary Jane and a blonde girl leave, going in the opposite direction.  If she recognizes Steve or even notices him, Mary gives absolutely no sign.  Just as the number of students leaving dies down to a trickle, Peter finally emerges.  He's hunched in on himself, head ducked down and practically cringing as he comes out of the gate past a bunch of larger boys.  
  
They pounce on him mercilessly.  
  
"Hey, lover boy!"  
  
"There goes Pervert Parker!"  
  
"How's the condom collection, Parker?"  
  
Steve revs the motorcycle and holds out the spare helmet that he brought for the boy.  Peter dashes towards him, jams the helmet onto his head and leaps onto the bike, grabbing onto Steve for dear life as Steve pulls away from the curb.  Steve speeds along the streets until they're at Forest Park where he pulls the bike into a parking spot and kills the engine, pulling off his helmet.   Peter is still clinging tightly and it occurs to him that Peter's never been on the bike before.  "Are you okay?"  
  
Peter releases Steve and gets off the bike, tugging off the helmet a moment later.  "Not that I'm not grateful, but why are you here?"  
  
"Tony's Facebook feed had a very interesting photo in it this afternoon," Steve says, pulling his phone out of his jacket.  "He showed it to me and, well, Peter, I think we need to talk, don't you?"  
  
There's a low moan as Peter sees the image of himself sprawled facedown amid a pile of pamphlets about sex and an ungodly amount of condoms.  "This was on Tony's Facebook feed?"  
  
"Apparently, Tony is friends with Mary Jane."  
  
"Did he show this to anyone else?"  
  
"It's Tony.  What do you think?"  
  
Peter emits another moan and buries his face in his hand.  "Why isn't there a super villain around when I need one?  Why?  They interrupt everything else but when I need to get out of an embarrassing situation, they're nowhere to be found."  He takes his hand from his face and shouts skyward.  "You guys suck!!"  
  
"Peter --"  
  
"Why can't things go my way just once?"  
  
Steve grabs him by the shoulders and squeezes gently to get Peter's attention.  "If I'm not mistaken, Peter, things have most definitely been going your way."  
  
Peter blushes violently.  "I-I can explain --"  
  
"I get the picture, Peter," Steve cuts him off, sternly.  "And quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you.  You and Mary Jane are only fifteen.  And didn't you tell me not too long ago that the two of you decided to wait until you're older?"  
  
"I did!  And we are!"  
  
Steve holds up the picture again.  "That's a heck of a lot of condoms for someone who's not having sex, Peter."  
  
"Mary Jane and I aren't having sex," Peter protests hotly.  "That stuff is for Bucky."  
  
Steve's mouth drops open.  He closes it with a snap.  "What?!"  
  
"Bucky's sneaking out to see that Jessica Jones person."  Peter is staring steadily at his sneakers.  "Mary Jane and I kind of realized that's the third girl Bucky's been...uh... A-and we thought...  He probably doesn't know about all the stuff you can catch these days."  Peter slowly raises his head.  "You know about that, right Steve?  HIV and AIDS?"  
  
Now it's Steve's turn to blush.  "SHIELD brought me up to speed."  
  
Peter rummages in his backpack and pulls out a stack of pamphlets.  "Did they tell you about genital warts and herpes?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"How about all the different types of contraceptives we have now?"  
  
"Um..."  
  
"Do you need condoms, Steve?  I mean, you've got a girlfriend now and you're _not_   fifteen," Peter goes on, shoving a handful of brightly packaged condoms into Steve's hands.  
  
Steve blushes right down to his toes.  Where are the HYDRA attacks or insane space princes when he needs them?  
  
"I've got an appointment to get tested for STDs at four," Peter adds.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Ms. Hester made the appointment for me."  
  
"Didn't you tell her you're not having sex?"  
  
"Didn't I tell _you_ I'm not having sex?" Peter counters peevishly.  "Did you believe me?"    
  
Peter has a point.  "You know you don't actually have to go to that appointment."  
  
"Won't they tell Ms. Hester I didn't show up?"  
  
Finally.  A question that _doesn't_ embarrass the hell out of him.  "No, Peter.  That's against the law."  
  
"Oh thank God," Peter sighs.  "I really wasn't looking forward to that."  
  
"I can't imagine you were."  But Steve is looking forward to hearing about what happens when Peter gives Bucky the pamphlets and the condoms.  In fact, that might be the highlight of this entire episode.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick! Go to Chapter 22 to see the amazing art that Cainternn did for the opening of this chapter. It's soooo good!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
  
  
  
**Queens Center Mall - Food Court**  
  
  
  
  
Mary Jane knows that, as Spider-man, Peter Parker moves like an acrobat.  She's seen him dodge _bullets_ and other projectiles with grace that rivals the Black Widow's.   Peter is the model of competence and efficiency when he's Spidey, especially now that Steve and Bucky have been training him.  All of this makes it so much harder for Mary Jane to understand how Peter could take something as simple as going to the Guidance office to pick up a few lousy pamphlets for Bucky and turn it into an utter _debacle_ of unbelievable proportions.  
  
"So?"  Liz demands, setting down her Coke down hard on the plastic table.  "Spill.  You did the deed with _Peter Parker_."  She says his name with complete disdain.  
  
"We didn't --"  
  
"He had a friggin' mountain of condoms, Mary!"  
  
Mary Jane blows out an exasperated sigh.  "We _talked_ about it.  That's all."  
  
"You swear?"  
  
"I swear."  Pleasepleaseplease, Mary Jane prays, let that be the end of it.  
  
But Liz is like a dog with a bone.  No, she's like a pit bull with a hapless victim.  "So if all you're doing is talking, what's with those pamphlets?"  
  
"Peter likes to research."  There.  That sounds plausible.  
  
"But if neither of you have done anything, then..."  Liz trails off and her eyes go wide.  She stares at Mary Jane with a scandalized expression.  "He's doing it with somebody else!"  
  
Mary blows out an exasperated breath.  "No, he's not.  You think he wouldn't feel so guilty he'd just blurt it out like an idiot?"  
  
Liz's expression turns downright mean.  "Not if he's having gay sex."  
  
"Oh my God!  I cannot believe --"  
  
"That cousin of his is so totally handsy," Liz goes on.  "Flash says he saw the guy grab Peter's ass --"  
  
"Flash is an idiot," Mary Jane hisses.  "And Bu -- uh, James is like a _dad_ to Peter --"  
  
"Explain to me how he lives with Peter, doesn't have a job --"  
  
"He's a disabled _veteran_ , for God's sake!"  Mary Jane realizes she's shouting and lowers her voice.  "The guy lost his _arm_ serving his country."  
  
Liz looks smug.  "His arm and his damn mind.  The guy's a nut job."  
  
"He's my friend."  
  
"He's a creeper, MJ.  Why else would a guy his age spend all his time with Peter?"  
  
"Because he _loves_ his baby cousin, you --"  Mary Jane stops herself before she can say anything she'll regret.  Unlike Liz, she likes to think before she speaks, so she stuffs a cheese fry into her mouth.  
  
"What about this guy?  Does he love Peter too?"  Liz pulls out her phone and shows Mary Jane a blurry photo of Peter clinging onto Steve for dear life on the back of Steve's motorcycle.  "What's the deal with Peter and all of these big guys?"  
  
Mary Jane considers dumping her cheese fries on Liz.  But no.  She's known Liz as long as she's known Peter.  "That's James' best friend.  He's another veteran."  She has a flash of inspiration.  "Remember how Peter's uncle was murdered last spring?  His aunt invited his cousin to come live with them instead of recuperating at the VA hospital.  His friend comes to visit.  Any more prying you'd like to do into Peter's life?"  
  
"That's a loaded question, Brainy."  Tony drops into the chair next to Liz.  He's wearing sunglasses, an Iron Man baseball cap, a black leather jacket, a faded Metallica T-shirt, jeans that have grease on them and a pair of black Chucks.  He lowers his sunglasses enough to peer over them at Liz.  "You're Liz Allen, the girl who lives her entire life on Facebook."  
  
Liz's mouth drops open.  "Y-you're --"  
  
"Mary Jane's uncle."  He glances past Liz and then looks her in the eye.  "You shop here?"  
  
"S-sometimes.  When I have money," Liz stammers.  
  
Tony rummages in his pocket and shoves cash into her hand.  "Go.  Shop.  Brainy and I need to talk."  He makes a dismissive hand gesture.  "Go on.  There must be some tacky pair of shoes calling your name."  
  
Liz looks down at the money.  "This is a hundred dollars --!"  
  
"Fine, you little gold-digger.  Here."  Tony shoves another hundred into her hand.  "Now get lost."  
  
"Uh...okay.  Thanks?"  
  
"Whatever.  Go."  
  
Liz flashes a helpless look at Mary Jane, grabs her backpack and points at her phone, the universal sign for, 'I'll text you later.'  
  
Mary's mouth is hanging open.  "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm asking myself the same thing," Tony says, pulling off his sunglasses and looking around, wrinkling his nose in distaste.  "I can't believe people shop here and eat...  What _is_ that?"  
  
"They're cheese fries."  
  
"I bet if I analyzed that so-called cheese, we wouldn't find even a molecule of actual cheese in it."  
  
She defiantly pops one into her mouth.  "Mmmm.  Delicious."  
  
"Really?"  Tony takes one and tries a small bite.  "Not bad."  He finishes the fry and helps himself to a sip of her Coke.  "So.  You wanted to know why I'm here."  
  
Mary Jane lifts an eyebrow and folds her arms across her chest.  
  
"Well, I was coming off a three day science bender," Tony begins.  He stops, frowns and then starts again.  "I'd just made some improvements to my repulsor tech when JARVIS mentioned that there was something interesting in my Facebook feed."  
  
"You're not on Facebook."  
  
"I don't need to be on Facebook to get a feed of my friends' activities."  
  
No.  Oh no.  She's going to _kill_ Liz.  
  
"Turns out, your buddy Liz is a social media butterfly.  She posted that picture on Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram, Snapfish --"  
  
"Fine.  I get the point."  She.  Is.  Going.  To. Kill.  Liz.  
  
"Do you?"  Tony takes off his baseball cap and sets it down on the table.  He scratches at his goatee for a moment and he actually looks... _concerned_.  "I had JARVIS obliterate the picture so chances are good your mom won't see it.  The thing is, Brainy, I'm thinking maybe she _should_ see it.  Or your dad.  Someone."  
  
This can't be happening.  She cannot possibly be receiving a _sex talk_ from _Tony freaking Stark_ in the _Queens Center Mall_ food court!  "My dad --"  
  
"Is a deadbeat, absentee abusive jerk," Tony finishes for her.  "Which is why I'm here.  In fact, I'm kind of the perfect person to talk to you about this thing you're doing with Parker--"  
  
"Which is noth--"  
  
"There is photographic evidence that you and Parker are up to no good."  
  
"We aren't."  
  
"Brainy --"  
  
"Tony."  
  
He sighs and scrubs his face in his hand.  "I was even younger than you when I cashed in my V card.  Wanna know how old I was?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Twelve."  
  
"Oh my God," Mary Jane moans.  How has nobody noticed that Tony Stark is here?  Are people that _blind_?  Shouldn't his fanboys be mobbing the table by now?  
  
"Twelve," Tony repeats.  "And it was with an escort."  
  
Where is the Scorpion blowing up the food court when she needs him?  Or any of Peter's enemies?  Even Flash Thompson... No.  Not Flash.  
  
"She was a very, very expensive escort," Tony is going on.  "Highly recommended and worth every penny."  He smiles, getting into the story.  "I was twelve --"  
  
"You mentioned that."  
  
"Going to school with a bunch of sixteen and seventeen year olds because... Hello.  Genius," he continues as if she didn't interrupt him.  "They didn't like me.  Looking back now, I get it.  I was a little kid.  They were teenagers.  I had waaaaaaay more money and brains than they did.  So, anyway, I wanted them to like me and I hired us the best escorts money could buy."  Tony leans forward.  "This isn't exactly news, by the way.  Three of my classmates already cashed in on this tale.  What they never knew, Mary Jane, is that I wish I'd waited a couple more years."  
  
Mary Jane blinks.  That's an almost unbelievable admission.  Then again, she goes to therapy with Tony.  She's heard a few unbelievable admissions.  
  
"I mean, I was a kid.  A really, really smart kid.  And in retrospect, I rushed my childhood to be an adult and do adult things."  He cocks his head and smirks.  "Pep would probably tell you that's why I'm so immature now.  Anyway, Brainy, what I'm trying to tell you is that you've got the rest of your life to do adult stuff.   Whether you've done the deed with Parker or you're just talking about it, my advice to you is to put the brakes on and enjoy being a kid while you're still a kid and the media won't make fun of you."  
  
This is the side of Tony Stark that the rest of the world never sees.  Even his teammates don't see it.  They see hints of it but Mary Jane knows that she and Pepper are the only ones who ever see the human being inside the armor.  She gets up, walks over and kisses his cheek.  "Thank you, Tony."  
  
There's a beat of silence while Tony processes the gesture and then he resumes speaking.  "Is Parker pressuring you?  Do you need me to set him straight?"

"He's not," she says, sitting back down.  
  
"It's no trouble."  
  
"It's not necessary."  
  
"Brainy."  
  
"Tony."  
  
"Condoms and pamphlets."  
  
"They're for Bucky!"  Mary Jane claps a hand over her mouth.  Oh no.  No.  What did she do?  Bucky is going to _kill_ her.    
  
Tony's eyes go wide.  Then he throws back his head and _cackles_.  The cackling goes on for a very, very long time.  
  
She's doomed.  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
**Some Fucking Rooftop in Gramercy Park**  
  
  
Barnes has survived a few crash landings in his time as the Winter Soldier.  At least he thinks that's the case.  Most recently -- and he knows this for sure --he survived a crashing Project Insight Helicarrier.  Jones' sloppy landing on a rooftop in Gramercy Park makes the Helicarrier crash look like a kiddie ride at Coney Island.  Okay.  Maybe he's exaggerating a little.  But just a little.  He shakes his head to clear it and then gets a good look at Jones.  
  
She's on her hands and knees, shaking from the exertion.  Or maybe nerves.  Or maybe a combination of both.  
  
And then it dawns on him.  She watched the Winter Soldier take out thirteen HYDRA operatives with a single shot to the head each as she flew him out of there.  Of course she's freaking out.  That's enough to scare the hell out of anyone.  "Jones?  You okay?"  
  
"I'm fine but these jeans are shot," Jones says with a scowl as she gets to her feet.  Her jeans are torn open at the knees and the flesh underneath is bloody and raw.  "That arm of yours weighs a goddamn ton, Barnes.  Fucked up my landing."  
  
He ignores the sarcasm and crouches down in front of her to examine the damage.  Instead of grabbing him under the arms, she picked him up like a bride, forcing him to sling his left arm around her shoulders for balance and when she landed -- badly -- she landed on her knees.  Still, they don't look as bad as they could, considering Jones' knees bore the brunt of the impact from their combined weight.  She must have a healing factor, in addition to enhanced strength.  Since asking Jones about her abilities is as pointless as expressing concern over her well-being, Barnes says, "From what I can tell, your landing sucked all by itself.  Ever hear of practice making perfect, Jones?"  
  
"I'm not the one who missed seven assholes with guns."  
  
"I didn't _miss_!  I _never_ miss.  I'm the Winter goddamn Soldier, for fuck's sake!"  
  
"You left seven alive, Winter Dumbass.  Did you do that on purpose?"  
  
"We were out of fucking range!"  He catches himself and lowers his voice.  "You flew us out of there like a bat out of hell."  
  
"They were _shooting_ at us!" Jones explodes.  
  
There they are, he thinks smugly.  The fear and the panic, expressed the same way Jones expresses every other emotion -- in other words, like she's supremely pissed off at everything in  life.   "No, they were shooting at me.  Next time, though, they'll be shooting at you."    
  
"Next time?"  
  
"A girl who flies?  They're gonna wanna see who you are and how you tick."  He flexes his arm and the plates in his arm click and whir under the sleeve of his leather jacket.  "And whether you might make a good asset."  
  
"They can kiss my fucking asset."  She blows out a frustrated breath.  "What we need to do now is find out why HYDRA is interested in plans about some shithole Tony Stark's company is renovating upstate."  She pulls out her phone, typing furiously on the screen.  "Next stop, Avengers Tower.  And we're taking a fucking cab."  
  
"I feel _safer_ in a fucking cab."  And just to be a dick, he adds, "Hell, I felt safer being shot at."  
  
Jones flips him off.  Because, of course.  
  
But he thinks this time, she was just a little less vehement about it.    
  
He must be growing on her.  
  
  
  
00000000000  
  
  
  
**Maria Hill's Office - Avengers Tower**  
  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
Steve raises an eyebrow at Hill's tone.  "Taking care of a crisis."    
  
Her eyes narrow at him.  "In Queens.  Without your shield."  
  
"Not every crisis requires Captain America, Maria."  
  
"When they involve Peter Parker, they usually do."  Hill steeples her fingers under her chin, regarding him calmly.  She's wearing an impeccably tailored navy blue business suit that could be her SHIELD uniform for the air of authority it gives her.  The office, like Hill, is all business.  There's a desk, a nameplate and not a personal effect in sight.  "What did he do now?"  
  
Steve thinks about the pamphlets and the condoms and he can feel his cheeks start to turn pink.  "That's private."  
  
"Private?" Hill echoes.  "What kind of crisis is private?"  
  
"A teenage boy crisis."    
  
"Oh god," she grimaces.  "He got his girlfriend pregnant, didn't he?"  
  
"What? No!  They've never even had sex."  And he just blurted that out in Hill's office, with all its surveillance equipment, including JARVIS who is no doubt recording this conversation to play for Tony later.  He clears his throat and attempts to take control of the discussion.  "Tell me about _your_ crisis, Maria."  
  
"Have you seen the news?" she asks.  
  
"No," Steve says.  "JARVIS said that you urgently needed to see me."  
  
"You should see this.  JARVIS?"  
  
A projected image of shaky cell phone video appears on Hill's wall.  Steve immediately recognizes the Meatpacking District.  The camera pans to a blown out building and then over to what appears to be a HYDRA strike team.  There are muffled whimpers from the person holding the camera as one strike member after the other is shot in the head from above.  And then the camera pans upwards.  
  
"Zoom in please, JARVIS," HIill says softly.  
  
The image is low quality but it looks like a flying person holding another person who's shooting at...  Oh.  Bucky.  And the flying person must be... "Jessica Jones."  
  
"She and Bucky are on their way here now.  I'd like you to attend the meeting, Steve," Hill says and then adds with a perfectly straight face that she must have learned from Fury, "If you're not too traumatized from Peter Parker's teenage boy crisis, that is."  
  
"I'm fine," Steve lies.  Because really, the day hasn't been awkward enough.  
  
And it's only four thirty in the afternoon.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
  
  
  
  
**Avengers Tower 38th Floor Conference Room (AKA Hell on Earth)**  
  
  
  
"Dangerous, is what is is," Death is complaining about the cabbie's cell phone conversation.  Like most New York City cabbies, ours was attached to his bluetooth headset.   He barely acknowledged us when we got in the cab and once our asses hit the pleather seats, he started jabbering away in some unrecognizable language.    
  
"They all do it."  
  
"He was on the phone the entire time he was driving and he almost got into three separate accidents because he wasn't paying attention."  
  
"You're just pissed because he ignored you when you told him to end the call and pay attention to the road," I say, rolling my eyes.    
  
Death blows out a frustrated breath.  "People have no manners today."  
  
"Would you prefer he had a conversation with you instead?"  God knows, I sure as hell didn't.  I _hated_ it when cabbies talked to me, especially when they hit on me.  And they all fucking hit on me before handsfree headsets and cheap long distance made cab rides bearable again.  "You could have told him how you just blew the heads off thirteen HYDRA thugs or about your gun collection."  
  
Before he can open his mouth to retort, the door to the conference room opens and Hill walks in with the flag waver shuffling in behind her.  Interestingly enough, Captain America doesn't look at all surprised to see Death with me.  
  
"We need to debrief you both about the events of this afternoon," Hill begins, smoothing her skirt as she takes a seat at the head of the table.    
  
Captain America sits to her right, directly across from his pal, Death.  The two of them immediately begin to have a staring contest-slash-silent-conversation and then they both look at me.  
  
I lean back in my chair and look her right in the eye.  "Screw that, Hill.  What you need to do is tell me what's in those blueprints.  We're starting to rack up one hell of a body count, don't you think?"  
  
Hill is about to answer when the door to the conference room is flung open and Tony Stark ambles in, dropping into the seat next to Captain America.  If his sudden appearance bothers Hill, she doesn't show it.  "Tony."  
  
"Maria.  Spangles.  Tin Man," Stark greets them.  His gaze lands on me.  "I don't believe I've we've met."  
  
"That's okay," I tell him.  "We can skip the introductions and you can just go right ahead and make up an obnoxious nickname for me."  
  
Stark's mouth curves into a delighted smirk.  "Snark like that?  I've gotta know your real name.  JARV?  Help me out?"  
  
"Sir, that is Jessica Jones," comes J's voice from out of thin air.  It probably shouldn't surprise me that Stark knows JARVIS too.  The guy's a star.  "She has been retained by Ms. Hill to investigate the theft of the plans for the facility upstate."  
  
The smile fades from Stark's face and he's suddenly all-business.  "Hill, when did that happen?"  
  
"This morning, Tony.  I left word for you."  
  
"You asked me to hold all your messages until further notice, sir," JARVIS tells Stark.  
  
I'm starting to get a very bad feeling about those blueprints.  Once upon a time, not very long ago, Stark manufactured some of the deadliest munitions in the world.  Now he designs weapons for the Avengers and God only knows what else that shouldn't end up in the wrong hands.  
  
Captain America seems to come to the same conclusion I have.  "Maria?"  
  
"I'm converting an old R &D operation into a new Avengers facility upstate," Stark explains.  "The Tower is great, don't get me wrong, but we're surrounded by reporters and there's not enough room to really cut loose when we train."  
  
Hill cuts in smoothly.  "Pepper hired an architectural firm to coordinate with us on Tony's initial designs.  I met last night with the chief architect on the project to discuss modifications that needed to be made to accommodate our security requirements.  After our meeting, the architect left the building and died of a heart attack in the taxi on his way home.  The team I sent wasn't able to recover the blueprints and, since the matter needed to be handled quietly, I retained Ms. Jones to investigate."  She looks at me.  "Jessica, would you please update us on your progress?"  
  
"It's not progress so much as a bunch of dead ends," I say, feeling as if I'm giving some kind of report at school.  "The blueprints weren't taken by the EMTs or the cops.  Nobody else got close enough to the cab because the cops set up a perimeter.  Which, by the way, was weird in and of itself.  Cabbies generally take sick passengers to the nearest emergency room.  They don't call 911.  But this cabbie did and he specifically said Alford was having a heart attack.  He didn't say, I think my passenger is having a heart attack.  He said, my passenger _is_ having a heart attack."  I pause and see if they're all following me.  
  
Hill cuts her eyes to Captain America who nods.  
  
Death actually looks fucking proud, like I'm some sort of performing seal doing all my tricks on cue.  
  
"It turns out, the person driving the cab wasn't actually Maurice Koffi.  He died in a carbon monoxide poisoning 'accident' at his home three days prior," I go on.  "The cab company?  Turns out that didn't exist either.  Someone went through a lot of trouble to create a fake company and hack all the mapping websites to make it appear to be a legitimate business.  And, by the way, they did it two weeks ago.  JARVIS is trying to identify the three guys in the SUV who put up the signage.  Barnes and I checked out the property in the Bronx but all we found was that they'd been there.  No clues about who they were or who they were working for."  
  
"And why _is_ Sergeant Barnes is working the case with you, Jessica?" Hill asks.  
  
"Because I can't get rid of him," I say, giving Death a pointed glare.  "And since I can't, he might as well make himself useful."  
  
"I'm thinking I might want to be a detective," Barnes announces to his pal, Captain America.  "A lot of my skills translate, right Jones?"  
  
"Oh sure," I drawl sarcastically.  "Blowing heads off of HYDRA agents is one of the requirements here in New York State."  
  
"You're lucky I was there --"  
  
"Maybe _you're_ the reason they showed up in the first place."  
  
"The receptionist was HYDRA, Jones."  
  
"Says the guy who freaks out over three hundred dollar bras and Nazi suit designers and then whines about how much shit costs and how people today have no manners."  
  
"At least I don't collect fucking string."  
  
Hill, Stark and Captain America are staring at us with their mouths hanging open.  
  
Stark is the first to break the silence and he does it with a mad scientist cackle.  "Oh, Barnes, you poor bastard."  
  
"What the hell's that supposed to mean!?" Barnes asks him irritably.  
  
"That would be spoiling the surprise."  Stark eyes Captain America and smirks.  "Let's just say your next conversation with your adopted kid is gonna be a doozy, isn't it, Spangles?"  
  
Captain America blushes a patriotic shade of red.  "Buck --"  
  
"Gentlemen."  Hill doesn't shout but she sounds every bit like a pissed-off schoolteacher dealing with an unruly class.  She narrows her eyes at me.  "Go on, Jessica."  
  
I shoot a look at Barnes and he just smirks at me.  "The mystery woman passing herself off as Alford's sister had the body cremated so there's no way to prove Alford was murdered unless we get a confession --"  
  
"She gave the guy at the funeral home a fake name, a fake address and a stolen credit card number," Barnes puts in.  "The charge for the deposit went through at first but then the credit card company canceled the approval."  
  
I kick him under the table for speaking out of turn.  Hard.  "My next line of inquiry was the architecture firm where Alford worked.  I found out he was having an affair with the receptionist, who may have been the mystery woman but we'll never know because she got blown up with the rest of Kirkland Associates this afternoon."  I glance upwards at the speakers where JARVIS' voice came from.  "JARVIS is running down a bunch of items for me.  J, want to report on that?"  
  
"Certainly, Ms. Jones," he says.  "I am examining footage taken from the vicinity to rule out the possibility that Mr. Alford did not have the blueprints when he hailed the taxi.  The results will be available in the next hour.  I am also searching footage of traffic in the vicinity of 385 East 188th Street to identify potential vehicles which may have transported the three men that altered the signage on the building's exterior.  I have found the incoming call to McManus funeral home that most likely coincides with the payment for Mr. Alford's cremation.  Unfortunately, the call came from a disposable cell phone.  I am unable to gather further details at this time."  
  
"New job," I tell him.  "Find out everything you can about that receptionist.  Also, does Alford's apartment building have security feeds you can hack?"  
  
There's a pause.  "Yes, Ms. Jones."  
  
"Can you run facial recognition and see if Tara the receptionist visited Alford at his home during the past few days?"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Jones."  
  
Something else occurs to me.  I think I've been running in circles when the answer has been under our noses all along.  "Any of you know what a locked room mystery is?"  
  
Of course JARVIS does. "A locked room mystery --"  
  
"Not you," I cut him off.  "The rest of the peanut gallery."  
  
Barnes frowns and shakes his head.  Hill, Stark and Spangles are likewise at a loss.  
  
"I loved reading detective novels when I was a kid," I say.  "Locked room mysteries were my favorite.  You get a crime, usually a murder, that's been committed except every clue tells you that it can't possibly be murder.  The room was locked, for example.  No way in or out.  Except there's always a way to crack a security system and kill a target, isn't there, Barnes?"  
  
He's sitting up straight, working the problem and then he looks at me, wide-eyed.  "Jesus Christ, Jones.  That's a hell of theory."  
  
"It makes sense."  God, I hope I'm right.  "Everything had to be perfectly timed.  The cab, when the drug that killed Alford took effect, and _when_ he got drugged in the first place.  Right here in Avengers fucking Tower."  
  
"I am reviewing the relevant footage right now, Ms. Jones," J tells me.  
  
I get to my feet.  "I'll help you.  Where's your office?"  
  
"He doesn't have one," Stark says.  
  
"Why the hell not?  He's the most competent guy in the whole damn building."  
  
Stark bursts into laughter.  "JARVIS isn't a guy, Jonesy.  He's my AI."  
  
My jaw drops.  "He's a fucking computer?"  
  
"No," Stark sniggers.  "He's computer _code_.  My finest creation."  
  
I grab Barnes by the lapels of his jacket and haul him to his feet.  He's snorting with laughter.  "You knew J was a fucking computer code and you let me think he was a person?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Barnes chortles.  
  
"You fucking asshole!"  I shove him roughly back into his chair, which creaks from the combination of the force of the shove and Barnes' weight.  "You're lucky I don't take you outside and beat the shit out of you.  What else haven't you come clean about?"  
  
Stark is cackling maniacally.  Captain America and Hill look horrified.  
  
"There's nothing else to tell," Barnes protests.  He can't keep a straight face and I'm not inclined to believe a damn word he says now.  
  
"Yeah?  How about why you think Tara the receptionist was HYDRA?"  
  
He rolls his eyes.  "She had the fucking squid tattooed on her ankle."  
  
"You fucking moron!" I explode.  "She had Ariel the motherfucking mermaid tattooed on her _wrist_.  Tara was an _idiot_ who was into sea shit, not a goddamn HYDRA operative.  She probably thought the squid was badass.  And that retrieval team probably caught your performance spitting on the fucking Hugo Boss boutique.  Maybe they were trying to prevent you from committing future crimes against fashion!"  
  
"Ms. Jones," Captain America tries to intervene.  
  
"Who else _but_ HYDRA would want those blueprints?" Barnes shouts over Captain America.  
  
"How about Perez fucking Hilton?"  
  
Barnes blinks.  "What's a Perez fucking Hilton?  Is that some sort of terrorist?"  
  
Stark is cackling so hard that he's doubled over.  "JARVIS, do not erase this under any circumstances _ever_."  
  
"I have the footage, Ms. Jones," JARVIS says quietly.  
  
"Thank God," Hill mutters.  
  
She's not kidding.  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10  
  
  
**_Still_ in Avengers Tower 38th Floor Conference Room (AKA Hell on Earth)**  
  
  
  
Peter was right.  
  
Steve counts himself lucky that nobody knows that today is the day a fifteen year old boy understood more about sex and relationships than Captain freaking America.  Why else would Peter have gotten Bucky a pamphlet titled, 'The Truth About Unhealthy Relationships'?  And what does it mean when Peter Parker could recognize that Bucky is in what is obviously an unhealthy relationship and Steve couldn't?  
  
It has to be an unhealthy relationship.  
  
It sure as hell isn't a healthy one.  
  
In fact, whatever is going on between Bucky and Jessica Jones isn't just unhealthy.  It's downright horrifying.  
  
The only thing that can possibly explain Bucky's positively gleeful reaction when Jones threatened to take him outside and beat the shit out of him is the decades of abuse Bucky suffered at the hands of HYDRA.  There is no other explanation.  At least, none that makes sense to Steve.  Okay, fine.  The only other explanation is that Bucky _likes_ the way Jessica Jones treats him and that just makes no sense at all.  
  
Back in the good old days in Brooklyn, Steve recalls wistfully, Bucky liked _nice_ girls.  Girls who wouldn't dream of threatening to beat the shit out of him.  Okay, sure, there were one or two who did smack Bucky a good one when they caught him two-timing them but Steve is pretty sure Bucky didn't _enjoy_ that.  He just considered a slap across the face as the cost of being popular with the ladies.  Then again... Didn't Bucky used to say he preferred spice to sugar when it came to dames?  
  
But Jessica Jones isn't spice.  She's fucking gunpowder.  
  
And Bucky is _smitten_ with her.    
  
There's no other word to describe it.  
  
Well, the other word to describe it is 'crazy'.  Crazy explains Bucky's casual use of absolutely _filthy_ language during his seemingly endless and, frankly, frightening bickering with Jones.  Back in the day, Bucky _never_ swore in front of girls and he sure as hell never raised his voice to them.  With Jones, he's matching her swear word for swear word.  Case in point: the 'discussion' currently taking place.  
  
"I'm telling you, Jones --"  
  
"And _I'm_ telling you --"  
  
"Yeah?  And how many people have _you_ assassinated?"  
  
"I'm looking at my first victim right now, Barnes."  
  
Steve clears his throat and reaches for Bucky's arm.  "Buck --"  
  
"There are no cameras in the bathroom," Bucky insists, raising his voice and talking right over Steve.  "It's the perfect place --"  
  
"And didn't we just prove that nobody went in or out?" Jones cuts him off angrily.  "JARVIS just told you that none of the sensors in the vents detected anyone in them.  And by the way, sensors in ventilation systems isn't creepy at all."  
  
Bucky blows out an exasperated sigh.  "You know how many people I killed using ventilation systems?"  
  
"No, do you?" Jones shoots back.  "From what I heard, your memory's been fucked with more times than a dollar hooker by the Holland Tunnel."  She glares at him.  "Now shut up and let me do my damn job."  
  
Bucky smirks and raises his hands in surrender.  He winks at Steve who smiles weakly.  
  
"Play it again, JARVIS," she says, laying both palms on the conference table and leaning forward to scrutinize the footage of the architect leaving his meeting with Maria Hill.  
  
The architect, Alford, is escorted by Maria from the conference room.  He stops briefly in the men's room while Maria waits outside.  Then she walks him to the elevator.  He rides down in the elevator by himself, no stops on other floors and leaves the building.  There are no interactions with other people other than Maria.  
  
Jones frowns hard.  "JARVIS, how many minutes elapsed between the time Alford left his meeting and the time the cabbie called 911?"  
  
"Nine minutes and eleven seconds, Ms. Jones."  
  
Her eyes narrow.  "How many minutes from the time he left the building to the time the cabbie made the call?"  
  
"Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds."  
  
"How many poisons could kill a person in four minutes and thirty eight seconds?"  
  
"There are over one hundred and fifty --"  
  
"Thanks," she interrupts him.  "So either he was poisoned when he left the building or he was poisoned while he was _in_ the building."  
  
Bucky shakes his head.  "The bathroom was the only opportunity, Jones."  
  
Jones bares her teeth in something Steve thinks is supposed to be a smile.  "That's why I'm the detective and you're not.  JARVIS, do you have footage of Alford arriving at the Tower and everything that happened after?"  
  
They all watch as Alford comes through the revolving doors and is given a visitor's badge by the security guard.  He goes to the elevator and rides it up to Hill's floor by himself.  When he gets out of the elevator, he's greeted by the floor's receptionist who hands him a pen and has him sign the visitor's log.  
  
"There," Jones says sharply and the video freezes.  "I never signed a visitor's log."  
  
"That's because we don't use them," Maria says.  "We use JARVIS."  
  
"The time elapsed from Mr. Alford's contact with the pen and the clipboard until the 911 call was one hundred and and forty minutes and nine seconds.  Nitrobenzine as well as fifteen other poisons could have been coated on the plastic of the clipboard or the pen and would have caused death in that time frame," JARVIS puts in.  "I have the footage of the reception desk after Miss Norcross brought Mr. Alford to conference room A."  
  
They all watch as the receptionist takes the clipboard by a single corner.  The frame splits and JARVIS replays the video of her handing the clipboard to Alford.  She's holding it by the same corner.  
  
"There's a guy at the front desk today," Jones says.  "Where's the cover model?"  
  
Maria answers slowly, "She called in sick."  
  
"We screen our employees, Hill, and I know how thoroughly you screen your team."  Tony is frowning at her.  "Even the support staff."  
  
"Of course we do," Maria agrees.  
  
Jones folds her arms over her chest and glances upwards.  "You use JARVIS to screen them?"  
  
"Are you implying --?" Tony begins.  
  
"JARVIS was fooled by a hacked Google Maps entry and records that were planted in the state corporations database," Jones interrupts.  "I'm not saying he screwed up but there was no way he could have known the physical location didn't match the image and he wouldn't have looked beyond the official public record of a company because _nobody_ would."  She squares her shoulders and looks up at the ceiling again, addressing JARVIS.  "Did you run facial recognition to see if whatsername showed up anywhere else?"  
  
"No, Ms. Jones," JARVIS responds and he sounds chagrined.  "I am performing that analysis now."  
  
An image of a pretty blonde appears along with her Stark Industries file.  Maria begins flipping through the holographic file while Jones looks over her shoulder.  "Everything checked out," she says, shaking her head.  "We use the same protocols SHIELD did and every source checked out.  I'm sorry, Tony --"  
  
"You heard Barnes' girlfriend," Tony cuts her off.  "Nobody would have thought of it."  
  
"I'll strengthen our procedures," Maria tells him.  
  
"I have a match on facial recognition," JARVIS announces and a mug shot appears next to the image of the receptionist.  The face is identical but the woman has ditched the blonde wig.  "Victoria Norcross is Felicia Hardy, address: 2 Gold Street, Apartment 24E, New York, New York 10038.  No prior arrests --"  
  
"Send everything to my phone," Jones says, grabbing Bucky's arm, tugging him towards the door.  "C'mon, Barnes."  
  
Bucky blinks and smiles slowly.  "You're not ditching me?"  
  
"Of course not."  Jones rolls her eyes.  "What would I do if HYDRA shows up?  It's not like I run around New York carrying a goddamn arsenal."  
  
"See?  You're _admitting_ you think HYDRA is involved."  
  
"No, I want you there so I can rub it in your face when I prove they're not."  She scowls at him.  "We're taking a cab and I don't want to hear one fucking word out of you about it."  
  
Bucky mimes zipping his lips and winks at Steve. 

Jones pauses and directs a glare in Steve's direction.  "No Avengers allowed.  I see one mask, cape, cowl or web and you can find your plans by yourself, got me?"  
  
"That's fine," Maria answers for Steve.  She heaves a sigh after the pair leaves.  "I'm so sorry, Tony.  I won't use her again --"  
  
Tony looks incredulous.  "Are you kidding?  Not only isn't she intimidated after seeing Barnes slaughter a squad of HYDRA nut jobs in broad daylight but she doesn't give a rat's ass that this one is Captain Clean or I'm Iron Man.  She's also a damned good detective.  Look how fast she put all that together.  Could anyone else on retainer have done that?"  
  
"No, but she's --"  
  
"Hired.  Put her on the top of your retainer list, Hill."  He looks thoughtful.  "Maybe we should put Bucky boy on retainer too since he's the wacky Watson to her snarktastic Sherlock, huh Capsicle?"  
  
"Um..."  Steve says.  He's not sure he can handle Bucky's budding career as a detective, especially if he's planning on spending any great amounts of time with Jessica Jones.  
  
"Come on, they make such a _cute_ couple," Tony insists.  
  
"Uh..."    
  
"In fact," Tony grins, "I think you should double date with him.  You guys used to do that, right?"  
  
"Tony --"  
  
"Fantastic."  He claps Steve on the back.  "I'll have J set something up here at the Tower.  And of course Pep and I will be there.  We wouldn't miss it."    
  
Steve drops into a chair as Tony walks out, cackling.  The faster he can get Bucky home to Peter and that pamphlet about unhealthy relationships, the happier they're all going to be.    
  
  
  
  


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11  
  
  
  
**2 Gold Street (AKA The Financial District)**  
  
  
  
Barnes kept mum for the entire cab ride from the Tower to the Financial District.  Their cabbie, on the other hand, didn't stop yammering into his Bluetooth headset during the entire ride.  The worst part?  Of the twenty three languages in which Barnes is fluent, one of them is Hindi.  This means Barnes was treated to the entire one-sided conversation about the cabbie's upcoming arranged nuptials back home in Chennai.  He raises an eyebrow at the thirty-four dollar fare but doesn't say anything to Jones about the obviously-rigged digital meter either.  
  
Why should he?  
  
Jones _ordered_ him not to speak.  
  
Not that he's an asset who mindlessly obeys orders these days.  But still.  There might be a tiny piece of him that still wants to be perfectly obedient and please his handler.  Well, not his handler, exactly.  But it would be nice to get a freaking _smile_ out of Jones for a change.  
  
Two Gold Street is one of the newer buildings in the Financial District, a fifty one story shiny glass tower that stands out amid the staid old bank buildings.  He's less concerned about the modern architecture than he is about places nearby where snipers could hide, where HYDRA or other enemies could be lurking and whether the doorman is a threat.  And no, the man is most definitely not because he's fiddling with his cell phone, like ninety-nine percent of the population these days.  
  
Barnes instantly rejects twenty fatal methods of dispatching the doorman, leaving him with more than a dozen to choose from that range from temporary to permanent incapacity.  He's about to ask Jones how she wants him to handle it when she slings her arm around his waist and burrows into his side, staggering drunkenly and laughing loudly.  
  
"Gonna get you upstairs and rip those goddamn jeans off you, lover boy," Jones slurs, pulling a set of keys out of her pocket with her free hand and jangling them for emphasis.  
  
The doorman glances up at them as they go past and then quickly goes back to his game of Candy Crush Saga.  
  
Oh.  That works too.  
  
Jones is cuddling against his left side and Barnes gingerly eases his cybernetic arm around her.  The sound the arm makes is muffled by the sweatshirt and leather jacket he's wearing but between his enhanced hearing and the echo effect of the lobby, it seems much louder.  
  
The doorman is too busy starting the next level of his game to notice.  Barnes watches him in the polished mirrored elevator doors.  Since this isn't a Stark building run by JARVIS, the elevator takes fucking forever to arrive.  
  
Jones fills the time by looping her arms up and clasping her hands behind Barnes' neck, pulling him down so that she can press a series of butterfly kisses along his jawline.  
  
Barnes _knows_ it's an act.  He does.  But it feels...  Distracting.  He should be focusing on potential threats other than the way his blood is thrumming through his veins and how good Jones smells.     
  
The elevator doors open and Jones releases him so abruptly that she nearly falls backwards into the guy coming out of the elevator.  And of course the guy is oblivious because he's talking on his fucking cell phone so he misses the glare Barnes throws in his direction.  Not that it matters.  The guy is less of a threat than the fake trees in the lobby.    
  
Jones savagely jabs the button for the twenty fourth floor.  
  
Barnes runs through the layout of the building that JARVIS sent and considers the floor plan of Apartment 24E.  While he does this, he notes the placement of the security camera in the elevator.  
  
"I'm handling this," Jones announces.  
  
"Okay," Barnes agrees easily and then asks, "What do you think the odds are that this Felicia broad is dead?"  
  
"Do _not_ jinjx this, Barnes!"  She turn to glare at him.  "We have an actual clue that wasn't faked for a change."  
  
"You want me to turn around three times and spit?"  
  
Jones screws up her face in disgust.  "Why the fuck would you do that?"  
  
For a second, Barnes isn't sure and then he remembers.  "Wards off the evil eye, my ma always said."  
  
"And how'd that work out for you, Barnes?"  
  
He loves this shit.  Everybody else handles him with kid gloves.  Not that he doesn't enjoy being mothered by Aunt May and loved unconditionally by Petey, Mary Jane and Stevie.  He loves it more than he'll ever be able to express.  The thing is, they walk on eggshells around him sometimes, afraid of even accidentally bringing up what HYDRA did to him.  It's not the elephant in the room; the damn elephant takes up the whole house.  Jones, on the other hand, treats him like a regular person.  And thanks to her, Barnes is starting to _feel_ like a regular person, even if he's not sure what all of the feelings he's experiencing are.  Or what a regular person is like these days, other than an asshole with no fucking manners who's permanently attached to his cell phone.  
  
"It worked out fuckin' great," Barnes says cheerfully, flexing his left arm so the plates adjust to emphasize the statement.  "Look at the nifty souvenir I got from my seventy years in captivity."  
  
It happens so quickly that if Barnes weren't so highly trained, he'd chalk the flicker of emotion he sees on Jones' face up to an overactive imagination.  But no, it was there and he saw it.  He's no expert on feelings -- not by a long shot -- but even he can tell that Jones reacted to the word 'captivity'.    
  
Before he can say another word, the elevator doors open and she stalks out.  
  
Barnes snags Jones by the collar and hauls her back, pulling her against him.  He wraps his left arm around her and put his lips to her ear.  "Don't look up, Jones.  There are extra security cameras, better quality than the shit the building uses.  Wanna lay odds Hardy set those up?"  
  
Jones presses herself close to him, nuzzling at his neck as she whispers. "You're the infiltration expert.  What do you want to do?"  
  
He's doing it.  Enhanced hearing is focused on Apartment 24E and he can hear muted sounds of movement from within.  Felicia Hardy may see them out here but she doesn't see them coming.  And she's not going to, either.   "On my count, Jones.  Three, two...fuck!"  
  
Jones doesn't bother waiting for the 'one' or for Barnes to fling the EMP disc up at the cameras to disable them.  She goes straight for the door to Apartment 24E and forces the door open.  
  
Barnes is hot on her heels, gun drawn.  
  
But it's too late.  
  
The sliding doors to the balcony are wide open and Felicia Hardy is gone.  
  
  
  
00000000000  
  
  
  
"Don't tell me she can fucking fly," I mutter charging out to the balcony to see if I can spot Hardy.  It's a complete surprise when I'm promptly kicked in the face.  
  
"Sorry to disappoint."  Hardy drops down and keeps coming at me with some kind of fancy Kung-Fu shit.  "How about you, sweetie?  I don't see any wings under that shitty jacket."  
  
"This jacket is a vintage classic."  I'm backed up against the railing and one good kick would send me over.  If I wasn't super strong that is.  Her kicks are annoying as fuck but they don't hurt.  "And I've got news for you, skank, those yoga pants aren't doing your ass any favors."  
  
That's a lie, of course.  Felicia Hardy is all lithe muscle and she's rocking the fucking yoga pants.  She's also a trained fighter of some kind, which means she dodges my fists easily.  "I'm a skank?  Have you looked in the mirror, you troll?  It's only going to be an improvement after I drop you twenty four floors."    
  
It's times like these I wish I actually knew more about fighting than street corner brawling because I keep swinging and missing.    
  
Hardy, on the other hand, never misses.  
  
Then again, neither does Barnes.  There's a flash of gleaming metal and the next thing we all know, he's dangling the Hardy bitch over the balcony by her neck.    
  
She claws at his hand and then her eyes go wide when she realizes the hand holding her is Barnes' metal one.  Hardy croaks something unintelligible at him.  
  
Barnes' eyes narrow and his head cocks slightly in my direction.  
  
It takes a beat for me to realize he's waiting for me to tell him what to do.  Just for the hell of it -- and also because she kicked me in the fucking face -- I let Hardy dangle for a little while longer and then say, "You twitch the wrong way, bitch, and you're going to find out firsthand all the shit the Winter Soldier is capable of."  
  
The second Barnes hauls her back over the railing and releases her, Hardy drops to her knees, coughing and rubbing her neck.  
  
Barnes looms over her and I'm suddenly reminded of just how dangerous the man is.    
  
"We have a friend in common, soldier," Hardy coughs. "He'd be very upset with you for hurting me."  
  
There's not even the slightest acknowledgement that Barnes heard her.  Not even a blink.  Barnes is like a cobra, poised to strike if Hardy does or says the wrong thing.  
  
"You _are_ friends with Spider, aren't you?" she persists.  
  
Barnes' cobra strike is lightning fast.  He's got Hardy by the throat again, her feet dangling uselessly in the air.    
  
I stuff my hands in the pockets of my so-called shitty jacket and look up at her.  "That was a mistake, sister.  The Soldier here is very protective of his little webby buddy."  
  
"Spidey's a nice kid," Barnes says, breaking his silence at last.  "Too fucking nice.  He gets upset when I blow the heads off of HYDRA agents who try to kill him.  And while I'm sure he'd be upset with me in principle for ripping your head off your neck, it wouldn't be because the two of you are such close pals."  
  
"We are," Hardy croaks.    
  
"He tells me everything and he's never mentioned being friends with --"  
  
"The Black Cat."  
  
Barnes gives her a shake.  " _You're_ the Black Cat?"  
  
She nods.  
  
"Who the hell is the Black Cat?" I ask.  Not that it's not obvious now.  The bitch is some kind of mask.  Because, of course.  Why wouldn't she be?  And she isn't lying about knowing Spider-kid.  
  
Not that it makes a difference to Barnes.  "I take it back.  Spidey's gonna be very upset when he finds out that in addition to being a fucking thief, you're also a murdering bitch --"  
  
"I didn't kill anybody!"  
  
"Does the name Corwin Alford ring a bell?" I demand. Thief?  She's a thief?  
  
"Alford?"  Hardy is having difficulty getting the words out.  
  
Barnes cuts his eyes to me and I nod.  He lowers Hardy so that her feet are touching the terrace again but keeps his hand around her throat.  
  
Hardy sucks in air.  "Alford's not dead."  
  
"He's dead and the blueprints he brought with him are missing."  I give her my nastiest smirk.  "Or they were.  I'm guessing you know where they are."  
  
"No.  My job was to..."  She coughs a few times.  "Slip him the sedative.  Somebody else was handling the extraction of the blueprints.  I just mapped out the plan for the client."  
  
"That's what you're doing with yourself now that Fisk is in jail?  Hiring yourself out?" Barnes demands angrily.  The plates of his metal arm make some vaguely threatening sounds.  "You told Spidey you were done with your life of crime when Fisk went down."  
  
I turn to glare at Barnes for giving half a shit about what Hardy is doing with her life when it dawns on me that Barnes is doing exactly what I told him to do.  He's being the good cop.   Well, as much of a good cop as he can be with his murder eyes and that scary death metal hand wrapped around Hardy's throat.  
  
"The job market is a little tight --"  
  
"I don't give a shit," Barnes cuts her off and gives her a rough shake.  "You're bad news and you're staying the hell away from my kid from now on.  Assuming I let you live."  
  
Okay, Barnes is the good cop _and_ the bad cop.  Or maybe he's only the bad cop when somebody says something about Spider-kid.  Since it's scaring the living shit out of Hardy, I figure I don't mind much.  
  
"The architect is dead," I bark.  "So's everybody he worked with.  So's the cab driver and the guy who pretended to be the cab driver.   Funny how you're still alive if you're not the murderer."  
  
Hardy's eyes go wide as that sinks in.  
  
And that's when the apartment explodes behind us.  
  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12  
  
  
  
**Somewhere in TriBeCa**  
  
  
  
"Holy shit!  You can fly!"  
  
"Yeah, but Jones can't land worth a damn," Barnes tells Hardy. He twists himself free from Jones' grip on the back of his jacket to land gracefully on the roof of the building while Jones and Hardy crash land in a heap.  A quick scan of the area tells him they're on Franklin Street and there are no HYDRA recovery teams or other bad guys in the immediate vicinity.  
  
Jones recovers first and Barnes doesn't bother hiding his smile when she grabs Hardy and hauls her to her feet.  "You're in between a rock and a much, much harder rock, bitch.  Time to start spilling your guts before the Soldier here spills them literally."  
  
Barnes doesn't have to try very hard to look menacing.  If Hardy survives this little encounter -- and he hasn't decided that she will -- he wants her to stay far, far away from Petey.  He's especially glad both he and Stevie turned down Petey's offer to introduce them to this duplicitous bitch.  Hardy may be every bit the 'hottie' that Petey described her as, but even Petey, trusting soul that he is, admitted he thought she was probably bad news.  
  
"Who _are_ you?" Hardy asks.  She's covered in small cuts from the balcony doors' safety glass and her knees and elbows are scraped badly from Jones' crash landing.  
  
"Jessica Jones."  The glare Jones throws Hardy's way makes the other woman back up a step.  "I'm the private investigator hired by Stark Industries to recover the blueprints you stole this morning."  
  
"A private investigator?  B-but you _fly_ \--"  
  
"And?" Jones demands irritably.  
  
Hardy sends a pointed look in Barnes' direction.  "You're with _him_."  
  
"Actually, I'm with her," Barnes corrects her with a smirk.  "I'm her trainee."  
  
"His HYDRA assassin skills are translatable," Jones says.  She doesn't take her eyes off of Hardy when she asks Barnes, "Hey, trainee, does your skill set include interrogations?"  
  
Barnes flexes his left arm and watches Hardy turn paler with each plate that clicks into place.  "Just the persuasion part, boss."  
  
"Works for me," Jones shrugs.  "Work for you, Felicia?"  
  
There's a second where Hardy looks like she's considering making a break for it so Barnes demonstrates just how fast he is by grabbing her throat again and slamming her down to the rooftop.  He looms over her, eyes narrowed.    
  
Jones picks up her cue perfectly.  "Who were you working for?"  
  
"H-his name...he called himself Hines," Hardy stammers.  
  
Barnes waits and when he realizes no other information is forthcoming, he cocks his head in Jones' direction to let her know he's waiting for her orders.  
  
"This'll go a lot faster if I don't have to turn the Soldier loose on you," Jones muses.  "He's still pretty fucked up in the head and I'm not even sure I could get him to stop once he gets started.  Of course, I don't really need him to beat the shit out of you."  She smiles nastily.  "I'm pretty fucking strong myself."  
  
Hardy swallows nervously.  "I don't know much about the guy.  He showed up in my apartment and said I could either do the job and get paid or he'd put my real name out there."  
  
"All that security and you want us to believe he just 'showed up'?" Jones asks.  
  
"I'm _telling_ you. I've been going over and over the footage --"  
  
"Which is now conveniently destroyed."  
  
"I have it backed up to the cloud."  
  
Barnes knows what Jones is thinking about _that_ because he's thinking it too.  
  
Jones doesn't stop her line of questioning.  "So you accepted the job and then what?"  
  
"He...left."  
  
Jones backhands Hardy, snapping the other woman's head sharply to one side.  "Lie or omit anything again and I let the Soldier start smacking you around."  
  
Hardy raises a hand and tentatively touches the blooming bruise on her cheekbone.  "You won't believe the truth."  
  
"I fly and he was born a hundred fucking years ago," Jones snaps, jerking a thumb in Barnes' direction.  "Believable is a sliding scale."  
  
"Besides," Barnes says, baring his teeth menacingly, "I'll know if you're lying."  He doesn't bother to correct Jones' shitty math skills.  
  
"The guy just _appeared_ in my apartment and then he vanished," Hardy explains.  "A burner phone was delivered an hour later by UPS.  That's how Hines stayed in touch with me.  He told me to expect another package and the next day, DHL delivered a box with a cover ID and a note about an appointment for an interview at Stark Industries the next day.  A week later, they hired me and a week after that, I started work."  
  
That's the truth.  Victoria Norcross -- Hardy's cover ID --  started work at SI two weeks before the murder and theft went down.  
  
"And?" Jones demands.  "You never bothered trying to trace the address from those packages?"  
  
"Of course I did!  Both of them came from drop and ship locations," Hardy shoots back.  "I was both the sender and the addressee.  I broke into the DHL office to see if they had security footage but they tape over every day's recordings."  She raises her chin defiantly.  "And yes, I broke into the architect's office and his apartment to see if I could figure out how he was involved.  The plans he was working on --"  
  
"We know," Jones cuts her off.  "So tell us what happened when you started working as a receptionist."  
  
"Hines ordered me to let him know every time Alford was scheduled to meet with Maria Hill.  Just before the first meeting, he sent me the clipboard and told me to have the guy sign in," Hardy goes on.  "I lifted Alford's fingerprints from that damn clipboard twice before I was told to coat it with the sedative."  
  
Jones' mouth twists.  "It was fucking poison.  Alford died almost ten minutes after he left the building, which makes you an accessory to murder.  Of course, since this Hines guy wants you dead, you might not live long enough to be charged with anything."  
  
"What if I help you find him?" Hardy offers.  "I don't like it when people double cross me and I like it even less when they try to kill me."  She actually looks confident when she adds, "Besides, I have the footage with Hines' face."  
  
"So do we," Jones smirks at her.  She plucks her cell phone from her pocket.  "Right, J?"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Jones," JARVIS agrees and then adds, "Ms. Hill has sent a vehicle so that you and Sergeant Barnes may escort Ms. Hardy back to the Tower.   It will be arriving at your location in four minutes and eleven seconds."  
  
Hardy's eyes go wide and it's obvious she's going to try to bolt.  
  
Barnes knocks her out before Jones can even cock her fist.  
  
She rolls her eyes at him.  "Show off."  
  
He catches Jones' fist before she can uncurl her fingers and he repositions her thumb properly.  "That's how you make a fist."  Then, still holding her hand, he goes behind her and maneuvers her arm.  "And _that's_ how you throw a punch."  Barnes backs up a few steps.  "We've got a couple of minutes.  Take a swing at me."  
  
"Are you out of your mind?!  What if I set you off on some kind of homicidal freak out?"  
  
Barnes rolls his eyes.  "I spar with Pe -- uh, _Spidey_ all the time, Jones.  Now stop being chicken and throw a damn punch."  
  
The look she gives him says she caught him nearly revealing Petey's name and she's filing that information away for later.  And then she takes a swing.  
  
It's a good punch and he lets it land, just to see how strong she is without any real training.  Jones, it turns out, is pretty damn strong. Not as strong as Stevie or Peter but definitely stronger than Natasha. "Not bad."  
  
"You let me hit you."  
  
"No shit, Jones."  Barnes holds up his cybernetic hand and ticks off his points one by one.  "If I didn't let you hit me, you never could.  You telegraphed that punch from a mile away.  And you pulled your punch.  You're not bad for a brawler, Jones, but with some real training --"  
  
"Not interested."  She narrows her eyes at him.  "There are plenty of masks running around without me getting involved in that shit."  
  
"You think you've got a choice?" he asks, nudging Hardy's unconscious form with his boot.  "Maybe you don't go looking for it but that shit seems to find you anyway."  Barnes gentles his tone.  "I'm not saying you need to learn how to fight like me but you've got powers, Jones.  You're not going to be able to hide what you can do forever."  
  
"Who says I'm hiding?"  
  
"The brainwashed assassin who's hiding in Spidey's house in fucking Queens so HYDRA, SHIELD and whoever the fuck else is looking for me can't find me."  What he can't figure out is what Jones is hiding from but he knows better than to ask.  "Nothing wrong with wanting to keep who you are secret but with great power comes great responsibility."  
  
Jones snorts.  "That sounds like a great load of bullshit.  Who came up with that?"  
  
"The man who raised Spidey before I came along."  
  
"Did you kill him?  Is that why you're raising Spider-kid?"  
  
"Contrary to what you might believe, Jones, I'm not responsible for every death ever."  It's Barnes' turn to roll his eyes and throw her words back at her.  "Next time we have a date where we tell each other our life stories and braid each others' hair, I'll tell you why I'm raising the boy as my own.  I'll even let you pick the nail polish color."  
  
Of course she flips him off.  
  
He's starting to think that's her way of saying that she likes him.  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
  
**Avengers Tower -- Again!**  
  
  
  
  
Captain America and Maria Hill and a couple of burly security staff are waiting for us when we pull into a private garage entrance to Avengers Tower with the Black Cat's unconscious carcass.   The two security guys grab Hardy.  
  
"Hey!"  I block their path, hands on hips and address Hill.  "You're turning her over to the cops, right?"    
  
"Unfortunately," Hill tells me, "the confession you beat out of her isn't admissible anywhere.  We're looking into what else we can ask the DA to charge her with unless you can find physical evidence tying her to the theft of the blueprints.  That poisoned clipboard is long gone and we're still trying to figure out how she managed to smuggle it in and out of the premises."  
  
"Holding her here is illegal," I point out.  "Barnes and I aren't going to be accessories to that and if you insist on doing it, we're off the case."  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I realize I just spoke for Barnes.  Like he's my partner or something.  Too late to take it back now.  
  
"She's right, Maria," Captain America chimes in.  "No matter what this woman has done, she's a citizen with rights."  
  
Hill nods in agreement.  "I understand that, Steve and Jessica, but we're going to have a hard time explaining her injuries if we turn her over now --"  
  
"Her apartment blew up with her in it."  
  
"How _did_ she manage to escape the explosion with only a few cuts and scrapes?"  Hill's eyes narrow at me.  "And how did all of you end up so far from her apartment building on a rooftop?"  
  
Like she doesn't already know.  Fucking Daredevil and his big fucking mouth.  "Didn't you know?  Barnes can fly."  
  
Everyone looks at Barnes.  He rolls his eyes.  "Jones."  
  
"Barnes."  
  
" _Jones_."  
  
" _Barnes_."  
  
"Fine," he huffs.  "It was me.  I fucking flew."  
  
Nobody believes it but apparently, they're willing to let it go.  
  
"We'll hold Ms. Hardy until you solve the case or you've exhausted your leads," Hill offers.  "JARVIS has already analyzed the footage he pulled and he's waiting to present it to us."  
  
I don't know why I care so much about what happens to a piece of shit like Felicia Hardy but I figure somebody should.  Still, Hill's offer is a good one and even Captain America seems mollified by it.  Besides, I'm dying to see how this Hines guy 'appeared' in Hardy's apartment for myself.  I step out of the way of the two security guards and let them pass.  "Fine."  
  
We all watch as they carry Hardy's unconscious body into a service elevator.  
  
"So, Buck," Captain America breaks the silence.  "Flying."  
  
"Flying," Barnes agrees.  
  
"How does that work exactly?"  
  
"Faith, trust and a little bit of pixie dust, Stevie," Barnes says and he actually manages to sound offended at being asked the question.  "And then I think happy fucking thoughts.  Like the feel of a Glock 43 or the sound a HYDRA base makes when it blows."  
  
Captain America's gaze ticks to me.  
  
"He was like this when I met him," I say, raising my hands.  
  
"He was like this when _I_ met him," Captain America tells me but the sappy expression on his face when he looks at his bestie tells me Barnes hasn't been like this lately.  "Almost a hundred years ago."  
  
Apparently, I bring out the best in the Winter Soldier and the sentimental sap in Captain America.  
  
Lucky me.  


 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 **Avengers Tower**  
  
  
Maria excuses herself to deal with Felicia Hardy, leaving Steve alone with Bucky and Jessica Jones.  The two of them are so busy going at each other that neither notices that JARVIS directs the elevator to the Avengers' floors or that they've followed him to the big conference room.  
  
"I'm fine, Barnes," Jones snaps, swatting at Bucky's hand.  
  
"You've got cuts and scrapes all over you, Jones!"  
  
"And you don't?"  
  
"Why do you think I offered to clean us up?" Bucky shoots back.  He pokes at a cut on Jones' forehead.  "You want stitches for this or do you have a healing factor?"  
  
"I'm not a superhero, Barnes."  
  
"You fly."  
  
"No, _you_ fly."  She narrows her eyes at him.  "Remember?"  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes.  "I had my first happy thought in seventy fucking years and took off like a rocket.  Right."  He snorts derisively at her.  "Stop being a pain in the ass and let me patch you up before you end up infected."  
  
Steve hazards a glance at Jones.  Her knees are torn up pretty badly and so are the palms of her hands.  There are cuts and scrapes on her face that he assumes are from at least one of the explosions she's been in today.  Bucky has matching cuts and scrapes.  "You both could use a little patching up, Buck."  
  
"See?" Bucky says.  "If Captain America thinks you need to be patched up --"  
  
"I'm not one of his fucking Avengers --"  
  
"Language!" Steve scolds.  "Both of you."  
  
They both turn in his direction as if noticing him for the first time.  And maybe they are.  
  
He uses his most authoritative Captain America voice.  The one that sometime works on Tony and always works on Peter.  "The pair of you were in _two_ explosions today.  It's a wonder you're not running around with broken bones or concussions."  Steve narrows his eyes at Bucky because it just dawned on him that Bucky was conditioned to ignore injuries in order to complete his missions.  "You're not concussed, are you, Buck?  Or hurt?"  
  
"I'm fine, Stevie."  
  
"So am I," Jones puts in and then adds with a smirk.  "Stevie."  
  
The best course of action, Steve decides, is to ignore both of them and to fetch a first aid kit from the bathroom down the hall.  Because of course, every bathroom in the Avengers' portion of the Tower has a first aid kit.  
  
Bucky snatches the kit from Steve's hands and practically _glowers_ at the Jones woman.  "I'm stitching that cut unless you tell me otherwise, Jones."  
  
"Is he always such a pain in the ass, Stevie?" Jones appeals to Steve.  
  
"You do seem to have brought out his protective streak," Steve shrugs and then, since he's not crazy about her calling him 'Stevie' and also because being a shit is apparently the order of the day, adds, "I've usually only seen him fuss like this over Spider-man."  
  
"Lucky me," Jones grumbles and then swats Bucky's hand away.  "I don't need stitches."  
  
"I knew it," Bucky crows.  "You have a healing factor."  
  
"Maybe I just don't give a shit about scarring."  
  
Steve leans over Bucky's shoulder to examine the cut.  "No, Miss Jones, that cut is healing quite nicely.  Looks like you have a healing factor."  He flashes her his most guileless smile, the one he uses for press conferences and when Tony starts getting on his nerves.  "And you fly."  
  
Bucky smirks.  
  
Jones flips them both off.  
  
  
00000000000000000  
  
  
  
**A Few Fucking Painkillers and Bandages Later**  
  
  
  
"That is fucking weird," I say, watching the footage for the third time.  Not that it gets any less fucking weird.  One moment, Hardy is by herself in her apartment.  The next, Hines appears.  He's nothing special, either.  Average height, about five ten or eleven with dark brown hair and dressed in a nondescript white dress shirt and black slacks with black dress shoes.  
  
"The cameras in the hallway didn't pick him up either," Barnes notes.  "He could have a teleportation disc."  
  
"If they existed."  
  
"Deadpool has one."  
  
I start to open my mouth to ask what a Deadpool is and then decide I don't want to know.  The probability is that it's some kind of masked superhero shit that I'm better off not knowing.  "JARVIS, can you run facial recognition and see if you can get a hit?"  
  
"I have already taken the liberty, Ms. Jones," J informs me, "and I am running several other analyses."  
  
"People don't just pop in and out of thin air," I complain.  
  
As if to prove me wrong, Captain America pops in through the conference room door with a tray filled with sandwiches and bottled drinks.  "I thought the two of you might be hungry."  He eyes me.  "Healing factors usually come with enhanced metabolisms."  
  
Barnes shoots me a triumphant smirk and grabs a sandwich.  "Jones has one of those, too, Stevie."  
  
"Hey, _grandma_ ," I snap at him.  "Enough with the gossiping."  
  
"Eat a damn sandwich, Jones, and I will."  
  
"Stop fucking mothering me, Barnes."  
  
Barnes looks pointedly at Stevie-boy.  "I'm not the one who wanted to feed you, Jonesy."  
  
Wonderful.  Two mother hens.  I randomly take a sandwich and continue pondering the Case of the Apparating Asshole.  "Hey JARVIS, go back a few days and let's see if we can spot anyone doing anything out of the ordinary on Hardy's floor."  
  
Like magic, video starts to play.  "I have already begun working backwards to isolate that information for you, Ms. Jones."  
  
"Marry me, JARVIS," I tell him. "You're the perfect man.  You're helpful and I never have to fuck you or feed you."  
  
"I am not a man, Ms. Jones --"  
  
"Exactly my point."  I lean back in my chair and watch Hardy's neighbors come in and out of their apartments, over and over again.  And then I see it.  "Stop.  You see that, Barnes?"  
  
"The delivery guy?"  Barnes reaches out and manipulates the image with his fingers, making it bigger.  There's a pause while Barnes stares hard and then he shakes his head.  "He's Asian, Jones."  
  
I decide to include Captain America in the fun.  "How about you, Stevie?  Do you see anything unusual?"    
  
Cap is hesitant when he says, "Isn't that a doorman building?"  
  
"And why is that important?" I ask.  
  
"Because the doorman signs for packages?"  He looks at me, seeking approval before adding a little more confidently, "The whole point is to not have delivery people wandering around.  It's a security precaution."  
  
"See that, Barnes?  Your buddy Stevie just taught you something about doormen."  
  
Barnes shrugs.  "I usually just killed the doormen.  I think."  He taps his temple with his metal forefinger.  "Memory's like fuckin' Swiss cheese, Jones."  He tilts his chair back and looks thoughtful.  "JARVIS, before you and Jones elope, can you pull footage from the building's security cameras and see what we can see about this delivery guy?"  
  
"Yes, Sergeant Barnes."  If an AI could sound put-upon, JARVIS pulls it off perfectly.  A moment later, he's got the footage we need.  
  
We watch the delivery guy walk the floor without ringing a single doorbell.  
  
"He's clocking the locations of the cameras," Barnes says.  And then he does his imitation of a cobra about to strike.  "Freeze it, JARVIS.  Go back ten seconds.  There."  
  
We're all staring at the delivery guy bending down as if to tie his shoe.  He's standing next to a small table just opposite the elevator and his hand is touching the leg of the table.  
  
"What the hell did he just stick on that table leg?" I ask.  
  
"If I may, Ms. Jones," JARVIS cuts in.  The image zooms in close on the delivery guy's face.  "This person is using a holographic image to conceal his true appearance.  Note the lack of shadows despite the overhead lighting."  
  
I stare at the image.  "Does that kind of technology exist?"  
  
"It does," JARVIS assures me, "though it is not widely available.  Mr. Stark holds a patent for it, as does Hammer Industries for a similar design --"  
  
"SHIELD had that kind of tech," Rogers says.  "Which means so did HYDRA.  We can presume that it's also available on the black market."  
  
Barnes flexes his metal fingers, setting off the plates in his arm.  "Guy's got a different build than Hines.  Same height but the bone structure can't be faked.  JARVIS, can we get any better look at what he's sticking under that table?"  
  
"There are no other images for me to enhance, Sergeant Barnes."  
  
"What about footage from just before Hardy's apartment got blown to bits?" I ask.  
  
"I'm afraid you and Sergeant Barnes were the only visitors."  
  
"Whatever that is," Barnes says, "it's not big enough or close enough to cause the kind of damage we saw."  
  
I have a sudden burst of inspiration.  "How about the floor below or the one above Hardy's?"  
  
Barnes raises an eyebrow at me.  "It'd require more explosives but that's a good idea, Jones.  You might have a future as an assassin."  
  
"The twenty-fifth floor appears to have sustained significant damage."  JARVIS shows us a live news feed.  The image splits and we see another delivery person leaving a package in front of Apartment 25E.  "This package was delivered thirty nine minutes before you and Sergeant Barnes arrived, Ms. Jones."  
  
"That doorman should be fired," I mutter as we watch a female FedEx delivery person drop the package in front of 25E.  "Is her face a hologram too?"  
  
"It is not," JARVIS tells me.  "However, my analysis of the footage of Mr. Hines has yielded an interesting result.   Mr. Hines is a hologram."  
  
We all watch as JARVIS proves it to us.  Arrows appear on the screen to highlight each point as he makes it.  Hines, despite his mass, never made a dent or a footprint on Hardy's carpet.  His face never showed a shadow, regardless of where the light hit.  
  
"Is there a device that can project a hologram from the distance of that table in the hallway to Hardy's apartment?" I ask.  
  
"There are three varieties, none of which are commercially available."  
  
I grab another sandwich and think some more.  "Is there anybody with a grudge against the Avengers who'd have access to that kind of tech?  And the experience to use it?"  
  
"Quentin Beck," JARVIS answers almost immediately.    
  
"The guy from Halloween with the fucking fishbowl?" Barnes groans.  
  
I stare at him.  "What?"  
  
Barnes screws up his face in disgust.  "Beck's a special effects guy.  Calls himself _Mysterio_.  He's the asshole who caused a riot during the Halloween parade so he could rob the high end boutiques in SoHo.  An op like this is out of his league."  
  
"Unless someone else is pulling his strings," Stevie suggests.  "But he's in custody, isn't he, JARVIS?"  
  
"He is not.  It appears his records have been tampered with using the same methods that were used to alter the mapping systems and the state corporation database."  
  
I blow out a sigh.  "Does Beck have the know-how to screw around with digital records?"  
  
"Not to my knowledge, Ms. Jones," J tells me.  
  
"Your theory has legs, Stevie," I say, gesturing at him with my sandwich.  "Someone is pulling Beck's strings.  Who hates your collective asses and would go out of their way to recruit a guy like Beck?"  
  
"HYDRA," Barnes says.  
  
"AIM," Stevie counters.  
  
"Osborn."  
  
"Octavius."  
  
"Rumlow."  
  
"Justin Hammer," JARVIS adds.  "He was released from Seagate Prison five months ago pending the appeal of his sentence, though he is restricted to home confinement.  Mr. Hammer would have access to the technology and would also have sufficient motivation given his history with Mr. Stark."  
  
"Hammer," Stevie agrees.  "Makes more sense than any of the others."  
  
We're close to cracking the case.  I can feel it. "JARVIS, get us whatever you can on Beck.  We have to find him before Hammer's people do."

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14  
  
  
  
**Delivery of a Laptop and Approval of Higher Security Clearance Later**  
  
  
  
  
"Jesus Christ.  He really _is_ wearing a fucking fishbowl."  
  
Barnes nods smugly.  "I told you so, Jones."  
  
"The papers said what happened at the Halloween Parade was a gas leak and a bunch of panicked parade-goers," I say, shaking my head in disbelief at the classified video of what really happened.  I swivel my chair around and ask Stevie, "Why the hell wasn't he under tighter security in jail?"  
  
"As far as we knew, Ms. Jones," Steve tells me, "he was.  In fact, the government was supposed to be bringing terrorism charges against him, last I heard."  
  
I flick my finger across the holographic images to watch it again when I notice something weird.  Spidey isn't his usual scrawny self.  "How do you make this bigger?"  
  
My boyfriend JARVIS does it for me.  
  
"Is that Johnny fucking _Storm_?"  I point at what can be nothing _other_ than Johnny fucking Storm flying overhead as Spidey-on-steroids goes after Beck.  There's an explosion that takes out the parade float and a shit-ton of shop windows on Sixth Avenue.  I see Captain America, Johnny fucking Storm and a bunch of kids come running like bats out of hell to start sifting through the rubble to find Spidey.  One of the kids is dressed in a Bucky Barnes costume.  And then I remember...  Spidey was dressed as Wartime Bucky Barnes for Halloween.  The picture of him with Captain America trended for a full week before #WinterSoldierSnuggles knocked it out of the top spot.  I freeze the video and narrow my eyes at Barnes.  "That was you in the Spider-man costume, wasn't it, Barnes?"  
  
Death turns an interesting shade of pink and mutters something about 'fucking magic spells'.  
  
"I'm afraid that's classified," Captain America tells me in a prim, schoolmarm-ish tone.  "And you still don't have a high enough clearance level."  
  
"I don't _want_ a high enough clearance level," I shoot back.  "There's some shit normal people are not meant to know."  I glare at Barnes.  "In fact, shit like that is exactly why I don't want to put on a mask and fly around like an asshole."  
  
"You'd make a fine flying asshole, Jones," Barnes assures me.  
  
Flipping Barnes off is pointless so I go with a more classic response.  "Fuck off, Barnes."  
  
"You know, I think we could all use some coffee," Captain America murmurs and beats a hasty but strategically sound retreat.  I take the opportunity to admire the view as he leaves.  The super soldier has a super ass.  
  
"He's rationed," Barnes says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Stevie.  He's got a girl."  
  
"And?"  
  
"You were ogling his ass, Jones."  
  
"Everyone ogles his ass, Barnes.  It's the modern equivalent of pledging allegiance to the fucking flag."  What I don't mention is, now that I've gotten a look at Barnes covered from head to toe in fucking spandex, I wouldn't mind ogling parts of him.  His ass is even better than Captain America's.  And there was an interestingly large bulge in the _front_ of that spandex Spidey costume.  I plan on take my time thinking about _that_ later when I'm alone in my bed.  "Does any of the shit from your classified files tell us whether Beck was working for someone when he pulled that stunt on Halloween?  Or are you not allowed to tell me that either?"  
  
Barnes actually looks grateful for the change in subject.  "I'm not an Avenger, Jones.  I can tell you whatever the fuck I want."  He glares at me when I start to open my mouth.  "Except the fucking Halloween story."  
  
I smile sweetly at him.  
  
He flips me off with his metal hand.  
  
"Jesus, Buck!"  Captain America is standing in the doorway, carrying a tray of coffee and looking absolutely scandalized.  "What's gotten into you?!"  
  
"Must be all that damn HYDRA mind scrambling, Stevie," Barnes smirks and Stevie actually looks like he might be sick.  
  
It hits me then that I'm seeing a way different Barnes than his best buddy Stevie has been seeing.  Lucky me, bringing out _this_ side of the guy.  But why me?  I don't want to think it's because Barnes somehow fucking _knows_ about me.  Except it's the only thing that makes sense.  Is there something about me that screams out about how Kilgrave controlled me for eight fucking months?  And is Barnes clinging to me because he can't remember the names of the streets where he grew up?  Eight months of being Kilgrave's plaything and I remember everything.  Or maybe I don't.  For all I know, Kilgrave took my memories too.  My hands start to shake and I shove them under the conference room table.  Enough.  There's a case and maybe solving it will do for Barnes what it does for me. "Barnes, do your slaying skills include finding people who don't want to be found?"  
  
The smirk slides from his face and he shakes his head.    
  
"But you said you could track --"  
  
"Track," Barnes cuts me off and the bitterness in his voice is razor sharp  "You _point_ a weapon, Jones.  You don't let the weapon figure out where to point itself.  Otherwise, it might point itself at you."  
  
"Fucking HYDRA assholes."  I reach for the laptop and pull up one of my search programs.  Then I cut my eyes to Captain America who's watching me like I might say something that'll reduce either him or Barnes to tears.  "How about you, Apple Pie?  Do you know how to find people?"  
  
"We use JARVIS, ma'am."  The 'ma'am' comes out with a little sarcastic twang, his comeback for being called 'apple pie', I figure.  
  
"Barnes, what did we learn earlier about JARVIS?"  
  
"Other than he's the perfect man because you don't have to fuck him?"  The smirk is back.  "We learned JARVIS is great with data but he's also limited by it."  
  
"Watch this, Stevie."  I direct my gaze upwards.  "JARVIS, where's Quentin Beck?"  
  
"I have not been able to ascertain his location, Ms. Jones."  
  
"Do you have any possible locations?"  
  
"Not as yet."  
  
"How about known associates?"  
  
"I do not."  
  
"Case in fucking point, Stevie.  Technology can't do everything."  I lean back in my chair, fold my arms over my chest and eye Barnes.  "In one hour, Barnes, you and I are going to have a list of leads to chase down."  
  
He gives me a skeptical look.  So does Stevie.  
  
"Back in the good old days," I say as I start entering the few bits of information I have on Beck, "when you two were little boys, way back before anyone ever imagined the Internet, if you wanted to dig up information about a person you had to bribe county clerks to get access to their shit and hope what they gave you was helpful.  These days, people save you the trouble by posting a shit-ton of personal information online and not realizing they're doing it.  And then there's stuff posted about them by their friends and through information resellers.  There are services that do everything for you for under thirty bucks."  
  
Barnes leans over my shoulder and watches me type.  "And you charge people to do this when they ask you to find someone?"  
  
"This is the _first_ step, Barnes," I tell him.  "There's still grunt work to be done.  And it's only this easy if the person you're looking for isn't trying to stay hidden like Beck is.  When that happens, finding the person is a grade-A pain in the ass and unless your client is Stark, the case is over before it begins because it gets too expensive to keep going."  
  
"How much do you charge a client for something that costs you thirty bucks?"  
  
"As much as it takes so I can make rent and eat something other than four for a buck ramen noodles, princess."  I roll my eyes at him. "Now, do you want me to teach you how to find a missing person or would you rather bitch about how much I charge?"  
  
"Fine," Barnes relents with a huff. "What's next?"  
  
"A life lesson."  I turn to Stevie.  "Quick.  Make up an alias."  
  
"Roger Barnes."  
  
Interesting.  "Your turn, Barnes."  
  
"James Reilly."  
  
"Stevie's is obvious," I say.  "Where'd the 'Reilly' come from?"  
  
"Can't tell you, Jones."  
  
"Spidey's secret identity," I guess.  
  
Barnes' jaw clenches and his expression hardens.  
  
"I don't give a shit what his real name is," I say, waving my hand dismissively and inwardly curse myself for stepping on _that_ land mine. "That's not the point.  The point is that when people need to pick an alias, they pick one that they'll recognize and it's usually a mother's maiden name or the name of someone they know really well."  
  
To my immense relief, Barnes relaxes.    
  
"Here."  I pull up Beck's birth certificate.  "What's his mother's maiden name?"  
  
"Hines."  His eyes practically light up with excitement.  It makes him look less like Death and more like someone I wouldn't mind fucking.  
  
I run Beck's mother through a search program. "She divorced Robert Beck and married Ludwig Rinehart when Quentin was in his teens.  They moved to California --"  
  
"And they both died there within the last five years," Barnes reads over my shoulder.  
  
"So what have we learned?" I ask.  
  
"He might be using Rinehart as an alias," Barnes recites dutifully.  
  
"What should we do next?"  
  
Barnes and Stevie exchange looks before Barnes ventures, "Google Beck?"  
  
"Do it," I instruct him.  
  
If there were ever any social media entries on Facebook or anywhere else, they've been obliterated but Beck's filmography on the Internet Movie Database shows up as a hit.  Barnes clicks on it and together, we read.  
  
"He was a stunt man," Stevie says.  "Before he took up visual effects."  
  
"They nominated him for a bunch of awards," Barnes reads.  
  
"But he didn't win," I point out.  "Bet that's why he turned to a life of crime.  Nobody _loved_ him.  Here."  I point towards the most recent entries.  "His last job was over a year ago."    
  
Barnes clicks on the entry.    
  
"See this, Barnes?  He worked with two other FX guys.  Those are leads for us to talk to."  I lean back in my chair and slide the laptop to him.  "I want you to get their addresses, find out if they're working on anything right now.  Movie crews are pretty cliquish so we're bound to find more people that know Beck if we visit a set instead of going to somebody's house.  Then you're going to see if any of those guys have Facebook or Twitter accounts.  Group photos with Beck in them might give us a better idea of who he hangs out with when he's not wearing a fishbowl on his head.  Oh and see if you can get anything on the local FX union.  Sometimes they have contact information the rest of the world doesn't have."  
  
"And what are you going to be doing Jones?"  
  
"Peeing in one of Stark's artificially intelligent toilets."  I hurry out so Barnes doesn't notice me smiling.  Who'd have thought someone like me could teach the Winter goddamn Soldier anything?  
  
  
  
0000000000000  
  
  
  
**Grunt Work, Part 1 - On Location in FiDi**  
  
  
  
  
"You're just going to observe," Jones warns him as they make their way towards the film trucks parked along Pearl Street.  
  
"Okay," Barnes says agreeably.  They're back in the Financial District because a lot of TV shows shoot down here, he's learned.    
  
Jones eyes him, like him agreeing with her is cause for suspicion.  "I'm sure you can spot holes a mile wide in their security but film crews aren't worried about getting their heads blown off by snipers or whatever.  They have expensive equipment and they also don't want spoilers about the plot getting leaked online."  
  
He vaguely recalls seeing film crews before but the context of his memories isn't clear so he just says, "Okay."  
  
"The Army filmed you and Stevie back in the day," Jones tells him, "so I'm guessing it hasn't changed much."  
  
"Probably," Barnes shrugs.  
  
"You don't remember."  
  
"Jones, the shit I don't remember could fill five lifetimes."  He squares his shoulders and changes the subject.  "How are you planning to infiltrate the crew?"  
  
"Simple, Barnes.  We walk over and say hi."  She flashes a rare smile at him.  "Bet the damn Asset of HYDRA never did that."  
  
"I might've."  
  
"But you don't remember."  
  
"Fuckin' A, Jones.  You're a quick study."  
  
Jones puts her hand on his arm and pulls him aside.  "Okay, quick lesson on film crews.  Those tables with the food are craft services.  The people around them are production assistants.  So are the clueless looking kids wandering around with cell phones.  Those big trucks over there are the trailers where the cast changes and relaxes between takes.  And that truck over there..."  She nods towards a truck marked 'Haddads'.  "That's a crew truck.  There's two of them --"  
  
"The target is an eighth of a klick from our present location."  
  
"Barnes."  She blocks his path and he allows her to push him back a few steps by pressing her palms to his chest.  It takes all his willpower not to look down to where she's touching him.  "I need to know you're not going to Asset out on me unless we're in actual, honest to God danger where people are shooting at us and shit."  
  
"Asset out on you?"  
  
"Barnes..."  
  
He raises his right hand.  "I promise I will not go nuts and randomly start killing people."  Then he adds with a smirk, "Unless we're in actual, honest to God danger where people are shooting at us and shit and _then_ Jones, if I kill anybody, it ain't gonna be random."  
  
She starts to open her mouth.  
  
"We were out of fucking range, Jones.  I _never_ miss."  
  
"The point, Barnes, is not to end up in actual, honest to God danger in the first place."  
  
"A little late for that, isn't it?  We've been blown up twice today already and the day ain't over yet.  And do I need to point out we're going after an asshole who wears a fishbowl on his head and fucks around with holograms, toxic gases and explosives?"  He tracks the movement as she takes her hands from his chest and stuffs them into her pockets.   "You're lucky I managed to back Stevie down from insisting on tagging along."  
  
"You're lucky I didn't leave you there with Stevie."  
  
"Yeah," Barnes agrees and it takes every bit of control not to grin like an idiot and betray the fact that he's having more fun than he's had in a very, very long time.  "Very lucky."

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15  
  
  
  
**Dazed and Confused in Avengers Tower**  
  
  
  
  
"You think your murderbot buddy would approve of you poking around in his girlfriend's life?"  
  
Contrary to what people believe, it's possible to sneak up on a super soldier.  Especially when that super soldier is engrossed in reading every available piece of information on the foul-mouthed, ill-tempered object of Bucky's affection.  Steve startles.  Hard.  And covers it badly.  "Oh.  Hi Tony."  
  
"Step away from data files, Capsicle."   Tony smirks.  "JARVIS, shut it down, will ya?"  
  
The holographic files vanish.  
  
Tony crooks a finger.  "Come on, Steve.  Have a good stiff drink and tell Uncle Tony all about how that nasty woman is corrupting Barnes' morals."  
  
"That's not --"  
  
"It's either that or you're jealous and considering I've got serious money riding on when you and Barnes are going confess your secret love for each other and do the horizontal mambo, I'm definitely hoping for the latter."  
  
Steve takes a page from Peter's book and buries his face in his hand.  "I know that's a popular internet meme --"  
  
"Holy shit!  Did you just use the phrase 'internet meme' in a sentence?"  Tony's smirk doubles in intensity.  "I'm proud of you, grandpa.  Next thing you know, you'll ditch the old man plaid you're so fond of."  
  
With a groan, Steve gets to his feet and follows Tony to the elevator and up to the common area bar.  "What's wrong with plaid?"  
  
"It's fine on schoolgirls' skirts," Tony begins.  He winces.  "Don't tell Dad-Devil I said that.  He'll ban Spider-girl from the premises and kick the crap out of me on suspicion of perving on his test tube baby."  
  
Steve wonders if there will ever be a time when he can handle the things that come out of Tony's mouth... "Tony --"  
  
"We can't have Spider-girl banned from the premises.  Banner is absolutely fascinated with the shared memories and biology thing.  His fragile green heart would break.  Also, it's really cute when the twins finish each others' sentences."  Tony ducks under the counter and pulls out a golden flask of Asgardian hooch.  With a grin, he pours a small drop into a glass of scotch and slides it towards Steve.  "Here you go, buddy."  
  
As always, it's easier just to let Stark ramble.  Steve takes a sip of the scotch and, thanks to whatever is in Thor's flask, savors the burn and blooming warmth inside.    
  
Stark pours himself a large amount of scotch.  "So.  You don't like Barnes' girlfriend."  
  
"I-I didn't say that," Steve stammers and then he scowls.  "And no, I'm not jealous.  Just... concerned."  
  
Tony comes around the bar and hops onto the stool next to Steve.  "Pepper and Hill checked her out --"  
  
"Jones worked a series of low-paying dead end jobs after dropping out of college," Steve says.  "Then there's an eight month gap in her history, followed by a stint in rehab --"  
  
"And now she's working as a detective.  Has been for a few years."  Tony shrugs.  "She lost her family in a car accident, got adopted by some stage mother for a publicity stunt.  You have to figure she'd crash and burn at some point, Cap.  Seems to me like she's trying to get her shit together and maybe that's what Barnes sees in her."    
  
"Bucky used to like nice girls."  
  
Tony raises an eyebrow.  "That sounds suspiciously like selective memory to me, buddy.  From the stories my dad used to tell, Bucky-boy liked girls.  Period.  Nice girls.  Bad girls.  Easy girls --"  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Two at a time --"  
  
"Tony!"  
  
"And good for him," Tony concludes.  "Whether he's consciously working that 'wounded war hero' thing he's got going on or not, the girls still like him.  He bagged Storm --"  
  
"Tony!"  
  
Tony grins wickedly.  "A girl who flies and makes thunder and lightning, Capsicle.  You've got to figure --"  
  
"It wasn't like that!"  Steve blurts.    
  
There's a long pause and then Tony's mouth drops open.  "You're telling me Barnes didn't bang that like a screen door in a hurricane?"  
  
With a loud groan for being a total jerk and revealing something he promised he'd never tell, Steve buries his face in his hand.    
  
"Steve."  Tony's voice is remarkably soft now.  Possibly even kind.  
  
Steve raises his head.  
  
"We all know what was in those files and we can all guess what _wasn't_ in those files," Tony says quietly.  "Don't you think it's a huge step for him to work up the nerve to chase after a girl?  Especially one like Jones?"  He nudges Steve's drink closer.  "Finish that.  You need it."  
  
"I don't like the way she talks to him."  
  
"Have you heard the way he talks to her?"  
  
"He'd _never_ talk to a girl like that."  
  
"Cap, he's talking to a girl like that _now_."  Tony shrugs.  "That's their dynamic and it seems to be working for him.  He can't be an emotional cripple hiding out in Parker's house forever and you shouldn't expect him to be."  
  
Steve doesn't protest when Tony refills his drink.  "When did you become such an expert on human nature?"  
  
"It's one of my hidden talents.  Also, I have Therapy Thursdays with Mary Jane.  She's like a miniature Pepper when it comes to reading people and sorting their shit out."  Tony refills his own glass.  "Jones is crude and she's rough around the edges but she's smart as hell.  None of Hill's people could have done what she did today.  _And_ she identified a major hole in our hiring practices.  We're giving her a bonus for that.  Now, factor in that she's got super powers of some kind and maybe you'll see what Barnes does."  
  
"Well," Steve ventures, still reeling from Tony's sudden show of depth and maturity.  He likes this side of Tony.  "Buck _did_ say they were just friends."  
  
Tony throws back his head and laughs.  "Oh, Capsicle.  Poor, naive little Capsicle.  Bucky-boy is crushing on Jones so hard that he's letting her lead him around by his cybernetic di --"  
  
"Tony!"  And there's the side of Tony that makes him grind his teeth.  
  
But the worst part is that Tony is right.  
  
He _hates_ it when Tony is right.  
  
  
  
000000000000  
  
  
  
**Grunt Work, Part 2**  
  
  
  
  
Movie making involves a lot of standing around.  I know this from experience.  In my long line of shitty temp jobs, there were a couple of shitty production assistant jobs that consisted mostly of staying the fuck out of the way, getting coffee and getting yelled at for no fucking reason.  Other than a really shitty paycheck.  One good thing came out of that crap job.  I know exactly what to say to Denny Cooper when I find him.  
  
Denny is in his mid-thirties and has the run-down look of somebody who's been on a very difficult set.  He's assembling some kind of device that automatically captures Barnes' interest after he finishes sizing Denny up.  Or assessing Denny as a threat.  Or whatever he does.  
  
"Hey," I say.  
  
The answering 'hey' is surprisingly wary as he looks for but doesn't find our ID cards.    
  
"My name is Jessica Jones." I pull out my detective identification and show it to him.  "I'm on retainer with Mutual Great Benefit and I'm trying to track down a guy you used to work with.  They're finally getting around to settling his workman's comp claim for that injury --"  
  
"That only took three fucking years," Denny gripes.  "I guess that means I still have another two to go for the one I got last year."  
  
"I only get the paperwork signed once they decide to settle," I tell him, pulling a sheaf of papers -- my time sheets -- out of my pocket.  "You want, I could blow some smoke about putting in a good word for you with those insurance assholes."  
  
"That's okay."  Denny visibly relaxes and takes the time to check me out.  He glances over at Barnes and whatever he sees makes him immediately snap his gaze right back at me.  "You're looking for Quent, right?"  
  
No sense denying it.  "Yeah.  He moved, didn't leave a forwarding address.  Real pain in the ass but it's how I make my living so I can't complain."  
  
"I was there when it happened."  
  
And here I was just making shit up.  "No kidding."  
  
"We were rigging a car to blow, just like I'm doing now."  Denny nods towards the device on the table.  "The production company was going cheap on the supplies and the director wanted a big fucking explosion.  Since we could only afford one car, we had to get it right the first time.  Quent had to use more explosive and because the detonators were so shitty, he was too close.  I don't have to tell you about the burns on his face and hands, huh?"  
  
That explains the fishbowl.  "No.  He didn't work for a while after, I guess."  
  
"No, he did.  Just... uncredited."  
  
"Uncredited as in off the books."  
  
"Yeah."  Denny shifts from foot to foot.  "Look, the union doesn't like that kind of shit --"  
  
"Not my place to tell them.  Is he working now?"  I know the answer even before I ask the question and I also think I know what name he's using for the job.  
  
Denny nods.  He looks around to make sure we're alone.  "They're operating out of Hackensack.  Sun King Productions.  Nobody uses their real names because the thing isn't union.  Quent uses the name Rinehart when he goes off the books so when you call that's who you ask for.  The production manager is Joyce Huang."  He pulls out his phone.  "Here's her number."  
  
I grab a pen and scribble the number on the back of my time sheets.  "Thanks.  I wish I could do something to get your claim processed."  
  
"We're gonna blow that Honda over there if you and your boyfriend want to stick around."  Denny glances over at Barnes again, obviously hoping I'll deny that he's my boyfriend so he can ask for my number.  
  
Denny's not bad looking and he blows shit up for a living.  
  
Barnes, on the other hand, is hot in a very scary way, blows shit up and kills people.  He also doesn't look amused about Denny's fumbling attempt to find out whether I'm single.  
  
Since Denny doesn't interest me much and Barnes scares the hell out of me, I decide to have some fun.  "Hey babe, that sounds really cool.  Want to stick around and watch?"  
  
"I saw plenty of shit get blown up while I was in the Sandbox," Barnes practically growls at me.  "So, unless you want to trigger my PTSD, the answer is no.  _Babe._ "  
  
Considering we've already been through two explosions today, I know Barnes is bullshitting me.  The thing is, it's convincing bullshit because who in their right mind would want to risk triggering him?  I offer Denny an apologetic shrug, grab Barnes' hand and tug him the fuck out of there.  
  
The minute we're clear, he leans hard against a storefront to suck in air.    
  
"Barnes?"  
  
He raises a hand and practically doubles over.  After what seems like a long time, Barnes straightens and there's something almost fragile about the indestructible Winter Soldier.  "I wasn't allowed to lie, Jones.  Even a bullshit lie like that one."  
  
Neither was I and I'd prefer not to wonder whether Kilgrave or HYDRA was more creative with their punishments.  "I need to call this Huang lady," I say pointing at a bar called The Full Shilling.  It looks like a nice and quiet place for us both to recover our dignity.  "Why don't we grab a drink while I do that?"  
  
"Can't get drunk."  
  
" _A_ drink, Barnes.  To take the edge off."  I roll my eyes at him.  "We still have to find Beck and getting shitfaced isn't the way to do it."  
  
" _A_ drink won't take the edge off for me," Barnes shrugs, looking off into the distance.  "I don't think _a_ drink does it for you either."  
  
"How about we pretend it does?" I suggest.  "And yes, I'm aware that's a fucking lie but it's also a big fuck you to HYDRA."  
  
The corners of his mouth turn upwards and some of the tension drains from his shoulders.  "You keep that up, Jones, I'm going to think you like me."  
  
The thing is, I'm actually starting to like the crazy brain-damaged bastard.  It's his friends I could do without.  So of course I flip him off.  
  
From the way he smiles, you'd think I just told him I loved him.  
  
Asshole.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16  
  
  
**The Full Shilling - 160 Pearl Street (AKA Not Quite A Dive Bar)**  
  
  
  
  
Barnes completes his assessment of The Full Shilling and its handful of occupants in less time than it takes the pretty blonde bartender with the lilting Irish accent to pour them each a glass of Jack Daniels.  He runs his hand lightly over the dark, polished wood of the bar, while he takes in the tile floors and the wooden bar stools.  There's something familiar about them, even though he doesn't think he's been in this particular pub.  Barnes can almost remember being in others like it.  He thinks there might have been a pub with a piano and Dum Dum Dugan raising a pint glass...  Peggy Carter in a red dress?  
  
At the back of the room is a curiosity and Barnes goes over to inspect it.  It's some sort of fancy, large compact disc player, nearly five feet in height, that charges an exorbitant dollar to play three songs of his choice.   Barnes doesn't recognize any of the musicians or any of the song titles but the player looks well used so he thinks the songs must be popular.  
  
"It's called a jukebox," Jones says, coming up next to him.  "They used to play 45s.  Uh, records.  Records that played at 45 revolutions per minute."  She shows him how to flip through the selections by pressing a button.  "I guess you've never heard of any of these guys, huh?"  
  
Barnes squints through the scratched glass at pictures of people wearing strange clothing with names like AC/DC, the Doors and Johnny Cash.  There are times he feels perfectly at ease in the Twenty-First Century and times like now where he feels completely lost, despite Petey's best efforts to acclimate him.  "Mighta but who knows.  Memory's like Swiss cheese, remember?"  
  
"Fuckin' HYDRA," she intones.  
  
"Fuckin' HYDRA," he agrees, following her to a table opposite the jukebox.  There are only two other patrons in the bar, a man and a woman, both somewhere in their thirties, wearing navy blue business suits and wedding rings.    
  
"Five bucks says they're not married to each other," Jones says.  She picks up her glass and drains half of it.    
  
"Not takin' that bet," Barnes demurs, downing his drink in a gulp.  "I'm brain damaged.  I ain't stupid."  
  
"No, Barnes, you're not stupid."  Jones finishes her drink.  "But I'll bet you the next round you missed the big clue our horny friend Denny gave us."  
  
" _Your_ horny friend.  Not mine."  
  
She snorts derisively.  "No shit, Captain Panic Attack."  
  
" _Sergeant_ Panic Attack.   Stevie's the captain."  He supposes he had that coming.  Not only did he behave like a jealous asshole but he triggered his own panic attack.  Barnes twists around and catches the attention of the pretty dark-haired waitress, holding up his empty glass and gesturing at Jones.  It feels natural, like something he's done a million times before.

The waitress hurries over with two more glasses and a friendly smile.  When she speaks, it's with a thick Dublin accent and she's looking straight at Barnes. "Can I get ya's something to eat?"  
  
"Not right now, sweetheart."  The words come out of his mouth in Irish-inflected Brooklynese, surprising him, even though he's lapsed into the accent once before, just recently with Petey.  
  
Her eyes light up.  "And where are your people from, darlin'?"  
  
He knows this.  He does.  It was on the placard in the Smithsonian and it's in his fucking Wikipedia page.  Except he can't remember.  Fuck.  
  
"His parents came from County fucking Cork," Jones bites out and she looks less than impressed by the waitress' flirtatious inquiry into his background.    
  
Barnes is pleased to see he's not the only one who can act like a jealous asshole.  
  
The waitress straightens quickly and hurries away.

Jones smirks triumphantly at the waitress' hasty retreat.  "Actually, only your father came from County Cork.  Your mother was born in Brooklyn and _her_ parents came from Russia.  I found some census records that led me to believe your mother's side of your family is Jewish."  
  
Barnes stares at her.  "You found...?  When?"  
  
"When your sister hired me.  She didn't know about your mother either because you kids were raised devoutly Catholic.  Apparently it was a big family scandal nobody talked about that might have had something to do with a stillborn son six months after the wedding."  She closes her eyes, searching for the name and then opens them again saying,  "Andrew."  
  
"Becca mentioned a couple of stillbirths before me."    
  
"Well, Detective Barnes, there's your first solo case.  You can look up your family history.  It's all there in the New York City Municipal Archives.  And you don't even have to get your hands dirty.  You can search online and it's fifteen dollars per record for everything before 1930.  Immigration records are available on the Ellis Island website for free and there are a bunch of websites that have data from the New York City Census.  Or you can be a pussy and have JARVIS do it."  Jones picks up her drink and eyes him.  "I charged your sister a hundred bucks for the research in case you're wondering.  And your pal Stevie paid her bill."  Raising her drink, Jones grins.  "L'chaim, Barnes."  
  
"L'chaim, Jones."  He sips at his drink, savoring the taste while he considers this piece of his past that nobody else seems to know.  "Did you tell Stevie?"  
  
"No.  Your sister was my client.  The only reason I'm telling _you_ is because you were the subject of the investigation."  She takes a long swallow of her drink.  "Also because HYDRA fucked with your memories and you deserve to have something back, even if your own family kept it from you."  
  
"Thanks, Jones," Barnes says and he knows how grateful he sounds when Jones ducks her head to focus on her drink.  
  
The waitress comes by with a bowl of pretzels, setting them down silently and then quickly returning to the bar to continue her conversation with the bartender.  
  
"Way to save her tip," Jones approves, taking a pretzel.  She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.  "So, Barnes?  Did you figure out the clue?"  
  
His memory of the past is full of holes but he's been conditioned to retain every detail of his missions so that his reports to his handlers are always accurate and complete.  Or maybe that's just because of the shitty version of the super soldier serum in his system.  Stevie's memory is like that, too.  So is Petey's.  He wonders if whatever gave Jones her powers also gave her that kind of memory.  "Sun King Productions in Hackensack?"  
  
"Nope.  The accident three years ago."  
  
"We didn't see anything about it when we Googled."  
  
"That's right, Barnes.  And what do we know about whoever's pulling the strings?"  
  
"They fuck with data."  
  
"Attaboy, Barnes.  Have a pretzel."  She tosses one at him.  
  
Barnes catches it in his mouth and crunches down with a grin even as he dimly remembers performing similar tricks for his handlers.  He pushes that memory down hard.  "So how do we get intel when the sources have been fucked with?"  
  
"There's always a thread to pull, Barnes.  You just have to keep looking for it."  She beckons him with a finger and pulls her smartphone out of her pocket.  "C'mere."  
  
He comes and if he leans in closer than he needs to, Jones doesn't protest.  
  
"Three years ago..."  Jones pulls up the Internet Movie Database.  "Beck and our pal Denny were working on..."  
  
"Mob Wedding?"  Barnes wrinkles his nose at the tacky title.    
  
"Looks like it got shelved post-production, never to see the light of day."  She taps the screen.  "We don't give a shit about that.  Here's where it all turned for Beck.  He worked steadily right up until then.  I'm guessing he didn't become a fishbowl-wearing asshole overnight."  
  
Barnes likes where this is going.  "Had to work up the nerve to live a life of crime."  
  
"And maybe he'd want to practice his shtick on the cheap bastard who bought substandard explosives."   She reaches into her pocket and takes out a pen, jotting the names of the producers on her cocktail napkin.  "How's your Googling, Barnes?"  
  
"I can Google with the best of 'em."    
  
She slides the phone towards him.  "Make me proud."  
  
"Mission parameters fuckin' accepted, Jones."  
  
  
  
00000000000  
  
  
**Long Island City -- AKA Fucking Queens**  
  
  
  
  
If the five rounds and three shots that we each had at the bar had any effect on either of us, it's worn off by the time we get off the R train at the Queensboro Plaza stop.  As well they should have.  On a good day, the trip from lower Manhattan to Queens takes an hour.  This wasn't a good day.  And riding the subway with Barnes was an experience.  
  
So is walking down the street with him.  His eyes are always in motion, like we're in a combat zone.  Then again, we're walking through Long Island City after dark, so maybe we are.  With rents being what they are in Manhattan and Brooklyn, Long Island City became a cheaper alternative for the film industry.  LIC boasts a number of sound stages, production facilities and equipment rental places.  It's not Hollywood, not by a long shot, but it doesn't need to be.    
  
Mob Wedding was produced by Jardin Partners.  Barnes did the digging and found out that Jardin Partners were two brothers, Rob and Don Steinberg.  Rob and his family died nine months ago in a carbon monoxide leak very much like the one that killed the cab driver and Don was murdered six months ago in the production company offices in a burglary gone wrong.  That case is still open.    
  
The offices of Jardin Partners are located at 211-A Meserole Avenue.  It's a squat, four story, red brick building.  Since it's a crime scene and because Meserole Avenue isn't Park Avenue, 211-A is vacant.  At least, it's supposed to be. The lights are on and somebody is definitely at home.  
  
Barnes hooks his arm around my waist and steers us past 211-A until we're in front of 202 Meserole Avenue.  202 is a two story white brick industrial property that's for rent.  With a flick of his left wrist, Barnes snaps the lock to the metal security gate over the front door and then crouches.  
  
I keep lookout while he rolls up the gate.  "Make sure there's no alarm."  
  
"Really, Jones?"  He straightens and eyes me.  " _Really_?"  
  
"Does the Winter goddamn Soldier disarm alarm systems?"  
  
"The Winter goddamn Soldier does."  He forces the front door open and gestures.  "And he doesn't miss.  After you, princess."  
  
I flip him off and wait for him to lower the gate before pulling the mini Maglite from my jacket.  Judging by the dust, 202 has been vacant for at least a year.  The stairs leading to the second floor look safe enough but I still let Barnes go first.  
  
He doesn't make a single floorboard or step creak.  In fact, he's so goddamn quiet, I'm not even sure he's breathing.  Barnes is that eerie.  
  
I kill the flashlight as I follow him to the window that gives us an unobstructed view of 211-A.  
  
Barnes reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a scope.  
  
"You carrying a rifle somewhere on you, Barnes?"  
  
With a sigh, he reaches under the back of his jacket and pulls out something that's larger than a handgun but smaller than a fucking cannon.  "This is a 9A-91.  Smallest assault rifle in the world."  
  
"Jesus, Barnes.  I was kidding."  
  
"I'm not."  His eyes bore into mine and they're as serious as I've ever seen them.  They give new meaning to the phrase 'deadly serious'.  "Let me know if you want the full inventory of what I'm packing."  
  
"I've seen you in spandex, Barnes.  I've got a damned good idea what you're packing."  
  
Barnes turns back to the window so abruptly that I think he might actually be blushing.  In fact, I'm sure he's blushing by the way he focuses all his attention on using the scope to check out the building across the street.  
  
There's no point asking if it's Beck.  Who else would be making himself at home in the former offices of Jardin Partners.  "How's the security look?"  
  
"For an amateur, he's pretty good at rigging booby traps," Barnes says.  "Nothing I can't handle."  
  
I start to open my mouth.  
  
"We were out of fucking range, for Christ's sake."  
  
"I wasn't going to mention _that_ , Barnes. What I _was_ going to mention was how you got yourself blown up by Beck when you were running around, showing off your ass and your junk in your Spidey costume."  
  
"We are _not_ discussing Halloween, Jones."  
  
"You don't think it's important to make sure Beck doesn't outsmart you again?"  
  
"He didn't _outsmart_ me --"  
  
" _Blown up_ , Barnes."  
  
Barnes blows out a very frustrated, very un-Winter Soldier-like sigh.  "Thor's idiot brother cast some kind of fucking spell that swapped my personality and abilities with Pe -- uh, Spidey's."  
  
"Thor has a brother?" I ask and ignore the fact that I can pretty much guess what Spidey's first name is.  
  
"That shit is _classified_ Jones.  That's all you're getting out of me."  
  
"You got Spidey's personality, Barnes."    
  
"Don't you dare laugh, Jones."  
  
"Spidey's personality."  
  
"A little respect, Jones," Barnes sniffs indignantly.  "I'm the Winter goddamn Soldier.  I scare the shit out of people."  
  
"You were very scary in your Spider-man costume, Barnes."  
  
It doesn't surprise me at all when he flips me off.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17  
  
  
  
 **Forest Hills, Queens**  
  
  
  
"He missed dinner, he didn't call and he's not picking up his phone," Peter says.  He's in his room, having a video chat with Steve over his StarkPhone and his Spidey suit is laid out on the bed, waiting for the word to be given that he needs to rescue Bucky.  "I-I think we should go look --"  
  
"Bucky is fine," Steve cuts him off but he seems more like he's trying to convince himself.  He's also speaking carefully, with a slight slur to his words, like he might have been drinking which is weird because Peter's never seen _that_ before.  In fact, Peter wasn't even sure it was possible with their kind of metabolism.  "Don't you have a final tomorrow that you should be studying for?"  
  
"Well, yeah, but --"  
  
"Bucky would tell you to study and get to bed on time."    
  
They stare at each other's image on their StarkPhones when Peter has a sudden flash of intuition.  "Was he anywhere near those explosions earlier?"  
  
"What makes you ask that?" Steve deflects.  
  
"Because he'd ask that about me and the answer would be yes and I'd probably lie about it," Peter tells him.  "And if it were me, I'd be hurt but I'd lie about that, too.  Is he hurt, Steve?"  
  
Steve sighs and rubs the back of his neck.  "He can't lie --"  
  
"I _know_ he can't lie.  Oh my God!  He's hurt!  Is he at the Tower?  How bad is it, Steve?  Should I get Aunt May --?"  
  
"He's _fi_ _ne_ , Peter."  
  
"And you're drunk."  
  
Steve's blows out a sigh.  "I've had a couple of drinks with Tony but I'm not drunk."  
  
"You _never_ drink."  
  
"I'm a human being, Peter.  I drink, I swear and I have sex."  Steve claps a hand over his mouth and blushes bright red.  "I also make mistakes, like saying things like that out loud when I've had a few drinks."  
  
"You said you had a _couple_ of drinks."  
  
"It's impossible to only have a couple of drinks with Tony."  
  
Peter peers more closely at the screen.  "Are you lying on the floor?"  
  
"Good night, Peter."  Steve's thumb hovers over the screen and then he narrows his eyes at Peter.  "Promise me you're not going out looking for Bucky and remember, it's treason to lie to me.  It's also grounds for me telling Bucky about that picture on Facebook."  
  
"Th-that's blackmail!" Peter says, incredulously.  Not only is Steve _drunk_ but he's _blackmailing_ Peter.  It's starting to give a lot of weight to those stories Bucky told about Steve cheating at cards.    
  
"Yup."    
  
Bucky is going to find out about that picture eventually, Peter knows.  That's just the ol' Parker Luck.  But the longer Peter can put that off, the better.  Right?  Right.  "Fine.  I promise."  
  
Steve clumsily pokes at the screen and finally manages to end the call.  
  
Peter stares at his StarkPhone and does the only sensible thing he can think of.  He calls Mary Jane.  
  
Hopefully, she's still speaking to him after the pamphlet fiasco this afternoon.  
  
  
  
  
000000000000000  
  
  
  
 **202 Meserole Avenue**  
  
  
  
  
Barnes is used to silence.  Nobody talked to the Asset when he was sent out with his teams.  Why would they?  It would be like having a conversation with a rifle.  Except, for the past few months, he's been surrounded by chatter.  Petey asks him a million questions whenever they're out in the field together.  So do the other kids.  So does Clint.  
  
Jones, on the other hand, is a professional.  She's completely silent.    
  
The silence doesn't bother him.  It doesn't.  He's watching Beck, for God's sake.  And Beck isn't doing a goddamned thing.  That doesn't bother him either.  Even before he was the Winter Soldier, he was a sniper.  He knows how to watch a target and wait for an opening for as long as it takes or until he's called off.  
  
Still, he can't resist breaking the silence by saying, "There was a costume, wasn't there, Jones?"  
  
"Fuck off, Barnes."  
  
Bingo.  "Was it pink?"  
  
"There was no costume."  
  
"You can't lie to someone who's got super senses and who's been trained to use 'em, Jones," Barnes tells her.  And she can't.  He can hear the subtle change in her breathing, maybe not so well as Murdock can but well enough.  "So.  Pink, huh?"  
  
"It wasn't fucking pink."  
  
"Jones, I could only get that reaction out of you if there was a costume and it was fucking pink," Barnes needles her.  Now that he's got the idea of Jones having a costume in his head...  
  
"It was white and I never wore it," Jones growls.  "Unlike you, I have enough self-respect not to run around in spandex."  
  
"Did you use the code name that went with your little spandex union suit?"  Because of course there was a code name.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Aw, c'mon, Jones, don't be shy.  What was it?"  
  
"There was no fucking code name, Barnes."  
  
"Yes, there was."  He's done this before, he thinks, this merciless teasing.  With Becca.  With Stevie.  Stevie, who was always so fucking serious, even before the serum.  Just like Petey.  It takes work to make either of them laugh.  Jones, on the other hand, isn't going to take much more before he gets her to crack a smile.  And she's going to give up the code name.  "Was it a flower, Jones?  Were you Tiger Lily?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"No, you're right.  Tiger lilies are orange.  What was I thinkin', huh?"  Barnes can't help but smirk at the way she scowls when she figures out where he's going with this.  "White flowers...  Let's see... Carnations.  Roses.  White Rose?  Magnolia?  No.  Wait.  Digitalis.  That's a good one for you, Jones.  Deadly but beautiful.  Must've been Digitalis."  
  
Jones punches his arm.  Hard.  Unfortunately for her, she punches the left one.  The force rocks him to the side a couple of inches but he doesn't feel it in any appreciable way.  "Owww!  Fuck!  Goddammit!  It was not fucking Digitalis, you asshole.  It was Jewel and I _never_ \--"  
  
Barnes bursts into laughter.  It feels so pure, bubbling up from his chest and it's so strong that he can't keep the scope in place as he chortles, "Jewel?!"  
  
"Shut up, Barnes!"  Jones is laughing too.  She looks pretty when she laughs, just like he thought she would.  "Shut the fuck up."  
  
"Okay, _Jewel_."    
  
"Are you this much of an asshole with Captain America?"  
  
"I was a _worse_ asshole with Captain America back in the day, Jones."  He turns to her.  "And here's what the history books don't tell you.  He was a pretty big asshole himself.  Did you know he cheats at cards?"  
  
Jones raises an eyebrow and despite her skeptical expression, he can tell she's interested.  "Captain America cheats at cards and is an asshole.  I'm calling bullshit, Barnes."  
  
"Stevie was a troll before they used the word that way," Barnes assures her.  "Even with my shitty memory, I've got a few good stories about what a fuckin' troll he was.  And you know I'm not makin' the stories up because I can't lie.  But to answer your original question, no.  I'm not this much of an asshole with him now.  I didn't even know I _could_ be this much of an asshole now."  
  
"So I bring out the asshole in you, Barnes?  Is that what you're saying?"  
  
"What I'm saying, _Jewel_ ," he says and he's picking his words carefully, "is that you treat me like I'm normal.  Everyone else walks on eggshells all the time around me."  
  
Jones shifts slightly next to him and the leather of her jacket creaks with the movement.  "That's because you're scary as fuck, Barnes."  
  
"But you're not afraid of me, are you?"  
  
"I must be crazy, but no."  
  
Even though he hears the unspoken 'not anymore', Barnes smiles as he raises the scope to his eye again.  All is quiet at 211-A.  "Good.  I don't want you to be, Jones.  We're friends."  He glances over at her and thinks he can see the faintest smile.  "I won't mind if Beck is."  
  
"Me either," Jones says.  "I have a hunch, Barnes.  I think Beck has those blueprints.  He either tailed Alford from the Tower or was waiting in the camera blind spot and took them.  My money is on him tailing Alford.  I also think he hasn't made the drop yet.  He's been too busy cleaning up loose ends all day."  
  
"If he's making the drop, he's not gonna do it here," Barnes agrees.  "There's four cars parked on the block.  Bet you five bucks one of them's his."  
  
"Yeah, well, if it is, it's stolen."  She gnaws at her lower lip.  "If you read me the plates, I can have JARVIS run them --"  
  
"No point, Jones.  We can just steal one of the other three."  
  
"Barnes, we're the good guys.  We don't steal cars."  
  
"How do you plan to...?"  Barnes trails off as he hits on the solution.  He bends down and unholsters his pistol from his ankle and retrieves the suppressor from his sock.  As he straightens, he catches Jones looking at him, wide-eyed.  "What?"  
  
"How many fucking guns are you carrying?"  
  
"Five, including the rifle.  I picked up extra ordnance while we were in the Tower," he shrugs.  "I'm carrying other weapons besides guns but I guess you'd know that."  He can feel his lips curving into a smile.  It feels good.  "You've seen me in spandex."  
  
"Spandex and Spidey's personality.  That's a real winning combination, Barnes."  She narrows her eyes at him.  "What exactly are you planning on doing with that hand cannon, Barnes?"  
  
"Forcing our pal Beck to take the fuckin' subway, Jones."  Barnes keeps his focus on the four cars as he screws the suppressor into place.  "Vandalism versus grand theft auto.  Your choice, Jewel."  
  
"Be my guest, Barnes.  Just try not to miss and tip him off."  
  
Barnes uses his left hand to wrench the window open.  Without taking his eyes off Jones, he shoots out the tires on each of the parked cars.  Sure, he's showing off.  So?  "I _never_ fucking miss."  
  
Jones, of course, continues to bust his balls.  "You did get blown up though."  
  
"Give it a rest, Jewel."  
  
"Did you have that little stutter when you had Spidey's personality, Barnes?"  
  
He can feel his cheeks heat up and even though it feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest, Barnes forces out the lie.  "No."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"You think so, Jewel?"  
  
"D-damn right I do, Spider-Soldier.  D-damn right I do."

  
  
0000000000000  
  
  
  
 **Meanwhile, in Forest Hills, Queens**  
  
  
  
Mary Jane is unsympathetic.  Peter has a nagging suspicion that she's still angry about the pamphlets-and-condoms fiasco.  
  
"But he's been in _two_ explosions," Peter protests.  He's careful to hold the phone so that Mary Jane can't see that he's in his Spidey suit.  "One of them was in Felicia Hardy's apartment."  
  
That's the wrong name to mention because Mary Jane scowls so hard that Peter nearly drops the phone when he recoils.  "Felicia Hardy?  The Black Cat?  The woman who --?"  
  
"Kissed me?"  
  
"Threw up on you."  
  
"That, too."  
  
"What's she got to do with Bucky and that woman he's dating?" Mary Jane asks, flopping back on her bed.  She's wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.  
  
Peter scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand and debates whether it would be okay to tell Mary he likes her pjs.  "I don't know.  It doesn't make any sense unless...  Maybe they're working on a case together?  That Jones lady is a private investigator."  
  
"Are you wearing your costume?"  Mary Jane's eyes narrow.  
  
Peter smiles weakly.  Yeah, she's still ticked off at him over the pamphlets-and-condoms fiasco.  It's probably not the best time to attempt to flirt. "Uh --"  
  
"Didn't you just tell me that Steve told you to stay put and get a good night's sleep?"  
  
"Steve was _drunk_."  
  
"Now you're just making things up."  
  
"I am not!" Peter protests hotly.  
  
She blows out a sigh.  "It's late and we have finals tomorrow.  If you sneak out tonight, you're going to either be a zombie in the morning or you're going to miss school altogether.  Which do you think is going to go over better with Bucky, Steve and Aunt May?"  
  
"But he's out there --"  
  
"And is _Steve_ worried that Bucky can't take care of himself?"  
  
"Steve was drunk," Peter reminds her.  "I'd say he wasn't exactly fine with the idea."  
  
"But he's not suiting up, is he?"  
  
"Well, no, but --"  
  
"Go to sleep, Peter!"  And with that, Mary Jane ends the call.  
  
Peter frowns at the StarkPhone in his hand and then he has an idea.  It isn't even necessary to use speed dial.  All he has to do is hit his home button and say, "Hey, JARVIS?"  
  
"Yes, Peter?"  
  
"Do you have Bucky's location?"  
  
"I do, Peter," JARVIS tells him.  "However, I have been instructed by Captain Rogers not to provide you with that information.  I _have_ been instructed to play this message."  
  
The photograph of Peter facedown in the hallway, in an ungainly sprawl on top of the pile of pamphlets and condoms appears on the screen and then there is a voiceover.  Steve's voice.  "Go to bed, Peter."  
  
JARVIS ends the call.  
  
Peter sighs.  There are five boroughs, more than eight million people and he has no idea where he'd even begin looking for Bucky.   All he can do is go to sleep and hope tomorrow is less humiliating than today.  
  
Then again, the Ol' Parker Luck never fails.  
  
Tomorrow is probably going to be _worse_.  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18  
  
  
  
**On the Move in Long Island City**  
  
  
  
  
"About fuckin' time," I say when Beck finally steps out of 211-A a little after midnight.  I elbow Barnes in the ribs when I see the cylindrical case slung over Beck's shoulder by its thick strap.  "He's got the blueprints."  
  
Barnes doesn't say a word.  He's busy tucking the scope back into his pocket and his gaze is fixed on Beck.  It's that same cobra-stillness I saw earlier when we were questioning Hardy.  His left hand rises slowly and hovers above with window sash.  
  
There's a frustrated gesture and Beck's mouth forms the unmistakable shape of the word 'fuck' when he discovers the flat tire on his Accord.  He stalks over to the next car and grows increasingly pissed off when he discovers that every car on the block has a flat tire.  Hunching his shoulders, he stomps off towards the subway.  
  
Holding up his right hand, Barnes signals me to wait and then counts down with his fingers.  Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.  He wrenches the window open and shimmies out, scaling the facade of the building, using his metal fingers for purchase on the rough brick surface.  I stare in confusion at his ass as he climbs upwards until I figure out that Barnes plans to tail Beck from the rooftops.  Then I follow in the only way I can.  
  
Barnes gives a little head shake at my less-than-perfect landing and then he's back to being all business.  We move silently across the rooftops, keeping perfect pace with Beck, who constantly looks over his shoulder but never once looks up.  It's something I'm going to keep in mind for the next time I have to tail a mark.  For as much as I've taught Barnes, he's teaching me a few useful things too.  
  
As if he can read my mind, Barnes pauses and turns.  He holds up his hand and points down at my boots, then at his.  Slowly, he demonstrates how to walk silently like he does even on the crunchy rooftop gravel.  With a crooked finger, he beckons me forward.  I copy his movements and he nods approvingly at my now silent stride before returning his attention to Beck, who is half a block ahead of us.  
  
Not that it matters.    
  
We know where he's going.  
  
As Beck rounds the corner of Crescent Street onto Queens Boulevard, Barnes balances on the building's parapet and prepares to jump down the four stories to the sidewalk.  We wait until Beck goes into the subway entrance, check to make sure there are no witnesses and then jump.  Barnes' landing is a lot smoother than mine.  He stays in a crouch and grabs my wrist before I can straighten.  
  
"This is how you need to land, Jones," Barnes says quietly.  "Look at my ankles and my knees.  Keep landing like you do and you're gonna break something.  You're also noisy as fuck."  
  
Even though I'm tempted to flip him off, I have to admit Barnes knows a hell of a lot more about stealth and how to use his super powers than I do.  I crouch next to him, mirroring his position.  "Like this?"  
  
"Perfect."  Nodding his approval, he pulls me up with him and we follow Beck into the Manhattan-bound side of the Queensboro Plaza station.   There's an electric sign telling us that the next train won't arrive for another nine minutes.  On our way to the turnstiles, we step over a homeless person of indeterminate gender who's buried under a pile of blankets.  Barnes rummages in his pocket and pulls out a one dollar bill and stuffs it into the cup next to the blanket pile.  
  
"HYDRA's money," he shrugs.  "Should do some good in the world, right?"  
  
I decide not to tell him how far a dollar doesn't go these days.  
  
We slide our MetroCards through the readers and step out onto the platform.  Beck is standing a few yards away, in the part of platform marked 'off peak waiting area'.  A group of kids are further down.  Judging by how they're dressed and that they still can form complete sentences, their night out is just beginning.  
  
Barnes hooks his left arm around me, pulling me close to his side as we walk right past Beck towards the benches in the off peak waiting area.  We take a spot halfway between Beck and the kids.  Since Barnes still has his arm around me, I twist around and slip my arm around him and under his open jacket.  It's like hugging a blast furnace, he's so warm.  But that's not all I feel.  I can feel the shapes of the knives, tucked into sheathes sewn into the jacket's lining.  His mini assault rifle is tucked into the back of his jeans.  There's a shoulder holster, too.  Curious now, I keep one eye on Beck and slide my other hand under his jacket and start exploring.  I find  a set of lock picks sewn in just behind his left pocket, more knives, razor blades and spare clips for his guns.  I'm certain that there's more stuff hidden on him than just what's in the jacket.  But the most interesting discovery is that he's letting me explore at all.  I have the feeling that nobody, not Stevie and not Spider-kid, has any idea how much shit the man carries.  
  
Beck glances our way and then focuses his attention on the electric sign which now says the Manhattan bound train is three minutes away.  Two minutes ago, it was nine minutes away.  Time is not a constant in the New York City subway system.    
  
"The next Manhattan-bound R train will arrive in one minute," comes the recorded announcement and the electronic sign adjusts accordingly.  
  
Barnes shifts in my grasp, signaling that I should let go now.  I consider trying to swipe one of his weapons and decide that's an insane act best left for another day.  He winks at me as I release him.  
  
When the train pulls into the station, we get into the car in front of Beck's, watching him though the glass doors that separate the cars.  As if the locked doors would stop either of us.  We have the car to ourselves so we wait for Beck to sit and then Barnes settles into a seat.  I drop down next to him.  
  
"Before you start making smart remarks about what I'm carrying, Jones," he says without taking his eyes off Beck, "think about your set of picks, the flashlight, the Swiss Army knife and the pepper spray you've got on you."  
  
I know he saw the flashlight but the rest of the inventory is tucked carefully away.  "How do you know what I'm carrying?"  
  
"I can hear the picks and smell the pepper spray.  The knife makes a bulge against your pocket that most experts wouldn't notice.  Just gotta know how to look for it."  Barnes glances down at me.  "You've got enhanced senses, don't you?"  
  
"Uh, no..." I say uncertainly.  There's a lot I don't know about myself when it comes to my powers.  They were just _there_ when I came out of my coma and I was so busy hiding them, I never really figured out what I could and couldn't do.  "How would I know if I had enhanced senses?"  
  
"Do you hear stuff other people can't?  Smell things they can't?"  
  
"Don't know.  Not something I usually talk about with people," I shrug.  
  
He cuts his eyes to me.  "I'm gonna go out on a limb here, Jones.  I think maybe you can and just don't know it.  'S probably what makes you so good at being an investigator."  
  
"Maybe I just have a fucking aptitude for it."  
  
"A fucking attitude?  Yeah, you've definitely got one of those."  Barnes is smirking as he turns his attention back to Beck.  "Did that get enhanced too?"  
  
Flipping him off is pointless by now, so I say, "That's all me, Barnes."  
  
Beck gets to his feet as we pull into the Lexington Avenue station.  We follow him towards the 4,5 and 6 trains, Barnes' arm wrapped around my waist the entire way.  A 4 express train is waiting but Beck hangs back, meaning he's waiting for the 6 local.  The electric sign says we have a two minute wait.  
  
Four minutes later, we're still waiting.  
  
Barnes shoots a glare at the electric sign which still says the 6 is two minutes away.  He scowls when the recorded announcement comes on and confirms the two minute wait.    
  
Beck is even more annoyed.  He's starting to pace and he keeps pulling out his cell phone to check the time.  
  
The sign now reads 'Delayed'.  
  
Beck scowls, turns on his heel and storms past us, through the turnstiles and exits the station.  
  
Barnes and I wait a beat and then follow.  
  
Just as we get to street level, Beck gets into a cab.  
  
We watch as it pulls away.  At this hour, the streets are empty and there are no other cabs.  
  
I swear loudly.  
  
And then Barnes takes off at a run.  He's fucking _fast_.  Like, inhumanly fast.  
  
There's no way I can run that fast.  At least, I don't think there is.  
  
But I can fly.  
  
I _hate_ flying.  
  
  
  
000000000000000000  
  
  
**Avengers Tower - Steve's Apartment**  
  
  
  
Steve feels the grenade hit his chest and his eyes fly open.  
  
Karen is standing over him.  
  
He's about to leap to his feet when he realizes the 'grenade' is actually a bottle of water and more importantly, he's got a hangover.  It's his second one since becoming a super soldier and both are thanks to Asgardian alcohol.  "Uh, hi.  What're you doing here?"  
  
"Don't you remember?" Karen asks.  "You drunk dialed me and asked for a booty call."  
  
Steve sits up, suddenly realizing he's on his bedroom floor, lying on top of his shield.  His head is throbbing and his throat feels like sandpaper.  He opens the water and gulps some down while he tries to translate what Karen just said.  But he can't.  "Huh?"  
  
"Drunk dialing, Steve.  Think about it."  
  
"That I get."  And he does because the water is helping to clear out the fog in his head.  "It's the second statement."  
  
"You drunk dialed me for sex."  
  
"I what?!"  Steve wants to protest but his phone is right there and he has a sinking feeling that if he checks the log, he won't have a leg to stand on.  "Sorry?"  
  
Karen sits on the floor next to him.  She's wearing a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt and though she looks tired, she doesn't look angry.  Or in the mood for sex.  "Are you telling me you're sorry or asking if you should be?"  
  
"I'm telling you.  I'm sorry Karen."  And he does his best to look sorry.  "That was an awful thing to do --"  
  
"This isn't about Peggy Carter again, is it?" Karen asks, "Because I told you, I'm not going to be jealous of a woman who's old enough to be my grandmother, even if you did tell her you loved her --"  
  
"It's about Bucky."  
  
Karen moans and buries her face in her hand.  "Oh God.  I _knew_ it.  You're in love with Bucky --"  
  
"I am _not_ in love with Bucky."  His metabolism, which is four times faster than a regular person's, isn't making much of a dent in his Asgardian hangover.  
  
"You had sex with Bucky."  
  
"Oh my God!  No!"  
  
"You want to have --"  
  
"No!"  Steve drains the bottle of water and wonders if he's able to stand up to get more from the kitchen.  "Bucky's got a girl."  
  
"And you're...jealous?"  Karen ventures.  
  
It's Steve's turn to groan and bury his face in his hand.  "No!  I'm not jealous.  I'm...worried."  
  
"Why are you worried?"  She scoots closer to him and rests a hand on his shoulder.  "Sure, Darcy's a little --"  
  
"It's not Darcy."  He looks up at her.  "It's someone else.  Jessica Jones."  
  
"The investigator?"  Karen's mouth curves into a smile.  "She did some work for Matt.   She's..."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Jessica Jones and _Bucky_?"  
  
"I _know_."  He leans against her, inhaling the scent of soap, her shampoo and Karen.  "Now you see why I'm worried?"  
  
"Bucky's a grown man --"  
  
"He's --"  
  
"With issues," Karen cuts him off, hand raised.  "HYDRA did terrible things to him, I know.  It's part of his defense, if we have to defend him.  But he found someone he wants and he's going for it instead of wallowing in his past."  
  
Steve winces when he realizes what she's talking about.  "Karen --"  
  
"You're in love with someone else, Steve."  Karen pulls away from him and gets to her feet.  "I'm not jealous but I'm not your consolation prize, either.   When you figure out what you want, let me know."  
  
Shit.  
  
Steve watches her leave and wonders how it's possible that _Peter_ is the one with the most stable and sane relationship.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19  
  
  
  
**Up, Up and Above the Upper East Side**  
  
  
  
  
I'm somewhere above 81st Street and Park Avenue when I see Beck get out of his cab and go into an apartment building.  Barnes doesn't break stride.  He runs right into the side of the building and starts scaling it.  By the time I circle around and come in for a landing, he's already on the roof of a building that has to be at least twenty stories high.  Not for the first time and probably not for the last, Barnes impresses the hell out of me.  
  
"Nice landing, Jones," Barnes murmurs without turning to look at me.  That cobra-stillness is back and I realize that he's using his super soldier senses to track Beck.  "C'mere."  
  
I come up beside him.  
  
"What do you hear?"  
  
"What am I supposed to be hearing?"  
  
"Just tell me."  
  
"Barnes --"  
  
He blows out an exasperated breath.  "Shut up and listen, then tell me what you hear."  
  
I roll my eyes and listen but all I hear is traffic going past and I tell him so.  
  
Barnes turns to me, eyes narrowed in thought as if I'm a problem he's trying to solve.  "Here's what I want you to do, Jones.  Focus on the building.  Block out everything else.  I want you to specifically listen for the elevator."  
  
"How the hell am I supposed to hear a fucking elevator, Barnes?"  
  
"Stop being an obstinate pain in the ass and _try_ , Jones," he scolds me.  "Do exactly what I tell you.  Close your eyes.  Breathe in.  Hold.  Out.  Hold.  Think about what an elevator sounds like and listen for it while you focus on your breathing."  
  
At first, all I hear are the sounds of traffic below and then I hear it.  The clanking chains and the sound of gears, along with a motorized hum.  It's faint but it starts getting louder.  Then it stops.  When the sound starts again, it gets softer and fades out.  
  
Barnes turns to me.  "Tell me what you heard."  
  
"A motor," I say.  "Chains.  Gears.  It stopped and then started again but I couldn't tell you what floor it stopped at.  Unless I was imagining things."  
  
His face lights up in a smile.  It's not one of his usual smirks but an honest-to-God smile and in that moment, he's the handsome war hero Bucky Barnes and not the scary Winter Soldier who runs for miles without breaking a sweat, scales buildings and carries an arsenal.  "No, Jones, you weren't.  You heard the elevator going to the eighteenth floor."  
  
"How the hell do you know which floor it went to?"    
  
"I _listened_."    
  
"But --"  
  
"Shhh."  Barnes claps his hand over my mouth.  
  
Since I can't hear whatever he's listening to, I go into detective mode and send a text to JARVIS, asking him for a list of all the tenants on the eighteenth floor of whatever building I'm standing on top of.  He immediately responds with an address -- 920 Park Avenue.  Thirty seconds later, I have a list of tenants.  There are only four and the one that jumps out at me is the one that's leased in a corporate name.  Still, I quickly eliminate the other three.  Apartment 18A is rented by an elderly widow, 18B's tenants are a lesbian couple in their forties and 18D is leased to a husband and wife who are in their early seventies.   I have JARVIS look for whatever he can find on GM Equities, the lessee of Apartment 18C.  Two minutes later, I have a name.  
  
Gideon Malick.  The man's an advisor to the President and has a resume full of increasingly powerful diplomatic and other high functioning government jobs, including head of operations for SHIELD, just before it fell.  
  
SHIELD, as in HYDRA.  
  
I cut my eyes over to Barnes who's been swearing all along that HYDRA's been behind this thing and I've been calling him paranoid.  
  
I'm about to eat my words.  
  
After all, it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you.  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
  
**Steve's Apartment - AKA Land of the Massive Alien Booze Hangover**  
  
  
  
"I know you're awake in there, Steve," Tony's voice comes through the speakers and it feels like it's reverberating in Steve's throbbing head.  "I also know you're hung over and hurting.  Want the cure?"  
  
With a sigh, Steve flings open the door to his apartment and gets a whiff of grease and potatoes that makes him instantly recoil.  "Tony --"  
  
"No need to thank me."  Tony brushes past him, picks up the shield and props it against the side of Steve's sofa.  "JARVIS alerted me to your condition and Happy was kind enough to do a French fry run."  
  
"It's after one in the morning," Steve protests on Happy's behalf -- too late, of course.  But _still_.  
  
Tony shrugs.  "You think after all these years with me, Happy's not used to worse than one am French fry runs?"  He holds the bag out.  "These are from a little diner on Eleventh Avenue.  I swear they're the only ones in the city that work on stubborn hangovers.  And if you don't believe me, ask Natasha and Murdock."  
  
Reluctantly, Steve takes the bag of French fries and stuffs one into his mouth.  It's a perfect combination of greasy and crispy.  And it's _delicious_.  He eats another.  
  
"So," Tony says.  
  
"So?"  
  
"So Karen wasn't too happy when she left."  
  
"I'm not discussing that with you."  
  
"You gonna to discuss it with Barnes?"  Tony swipes a fry.  "Or Parker?"  He munches thoughtfully.  "Actually, of the three idiot super soldiers I happen to know, Parker's --"  
  
"In the most sane and stable relationship.  And, by the way, you know four.  Jessica, Peter's clone.  Not Jessica Jones who's possibly the most unstable and volatile person I've ever met."  Steve focuses on the bag of fries.  "Regardless, I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Then eat your fries and talk about something else."  Tony goes into Steve's kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.  He gives one to Steve and settles onto Steve's sofa with the other.  "Or don't talk about anything because God knows how much you love to repress your emotions."  
  
Steve keeps eating the fries.  
  
"You know, I also happen to be in a sane and stable relationship.  Thor, too," Tony says.  "Know what Pepper, Jane and Mary Jane have in common?"  He doesn't wait for Steve to answer.  "They're all strong women.  Smart women.  They don't _need_ us as much as we need them.  Karen's like that, too."  
  
"I'm still in love with Peggy."  It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it and since it's out there, he adds, "I know there's nothing that can come of it, but --"  
  
"You love who you love, Steve.  You can't just turn it off because you woke up one day and it was the 21st Century and she's ninety-two and you're still in your twenties."  Tony leans back into the soft leather of Steve's sofa and shakes his head ruefully. "Jeez, you're bound and determined to bring out my big brother tendencies tonight, aren't you?"  
  
Steve gives him a skeptical look.  "You have big brother tendencies?"  
  
"You bring them out in me so I must," Tony shrugs.  "Mary Jane brings out this 'dad' thing in me and considering what a bastard my father was and her father is, I have no idea where that's coming from or why."  
  
"I knew your father --"  
  
"Let's save that for another night, shall we?"    
  
"Fine," Steve relents.  He reaches for another fry only to find he's eaten them all.  "I really screwed it up with Karen."  
  
"Do you want to fix it?" Tony asks.  
  
"I don't think it _can_ be fixed."  
  
Tony blows out a sigh.  "Do.  You.  Want.  To.  Fix. It?"  
  
"How do I fix something like this?" Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest and resting a hip against the wall.  "The love of my life --"  
  
"Is she?"  
  
"What do you mean, is she?"  
  
"She's the first woman you ever loved, Steve.  That doesn't mean she's the love of your life," Tony says more gently than Steve would ever have imagined the man being capable of being.  "She may well be but the truth is, you don't really know that, do you?  You're running from the possibility of loving someone else."  
  
"I must still be drunk because you're actually making sense."  
  
Tony rolls his eyes.  "Were you ever in love before Peggy?"  
  
"Girls weren't exactly lining up to date a ninety-five pound weakling with health issues," Steve shoots back.  
  
"Do you think you could love Karen?"  
  
"I... "  Steve stops and thinks about it.  "Maybe."  
  
"Then don't run from it, Steve."  Tony gets to his feet and sets the empty glass on the coffee table.  "You might think it's better to move on.  That it's the smart thing to do.  Don't do it.  Don't run from the possibility of love."  He locks stares with Steve.  "Pepper was right in front of me for years and I ran in every direction _but_ to the one real thing in my life.  I look back now at the time I wasted...  You go without love long enough and you realize it's everything."    
  
"Who are you and what did you do with Tony Stark?"  
  
"I'm the same Tony you know and love, pal."  Tony reaches out and pats Steve on the shoulder.  "Remember what I said about Barnes.  What he's doing with Jessica Jones is a huge step for him and it makes him happy.  Is it the best thing in the world for him?  Probably not but then again, who the hell are we to judge?  He's _happy_."  
  
Steve speechlessly watches Tony walk to the door.  
  
"Oh, one last piece of advice.  If you're thinking of calling Karen to grovel, don't."  Tony smiles.  "Show up in person with flowers and apologize for being the biggest ass on the planet.  Make sure you use those exact words.  And wait until the morning."   With that, he leaves.  
  
Steve decides it's going to be a _long_ time before he drinks that much again.  
  
  
  
000000000000000000  
  
  
  
**920 Park Avenue**  
  
  
  
Barnes knows there's a phrase for what he's been doing.  It's 'showing off' but Barnes is sure he's entitled.  HYDRA showed him off for years, putting him on display and putting him through his paces for their own entertainment in between missions.  And yes, he knows damn well he's showing off the very skills and abilities he got _from_ HYDRA.  At least something good is coming out of it because he's finally been able to teach Jones a thing or two.  
  
And if she's impressed on top of it, well, that's a nice bonus.  
  
He's sure as hell impressed with her.  Jones barely understands what her powers are, what she's capable of.  Not that it matters.  Even without using her powers, she's a damned impressive investigator and she's a damned good teacher.  He's learned a lot today.  
  
In the spirit of continuing to impress Jones, he effortlessly tracks Beck to an apartment the northwest end of the building.  Barnes points.  "He's --"  
  
"Apartment 18C," Jones cuts him off.    
  
"How the hell did you figure that out?"    
  
"You said the eighteenth floor, so I had JARVIS get me a list of the renters --"  
  
"But how --?"  
  
She claps her hand over his mouth.  "There are four units per floor and only one rented by a guy who's probably HYDRA."  Jones takes her hand away.  "Commence gloating."  
  
But he can't gloat.  He's too damn impressed.  "Who's probably HYDRA?"  
  
"Does the name Gideon Malick sound familiar?"  
  
Barnes shakes his head.    
  
"He was a bigwig at SHIELD and now he's an advisor to the President.  I don't have any proof he's HYDRA other than the fact Beck is delivering the stolen blueprints to him."  Then she frowns.  "It doesn't make sense though.  Why would someone that high up want to meet with a low life like Beck?"  
  
"He wouldn't."  
  
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Barnes?"  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Fuck."  
  
They look at each other.  
  
The northwest corner of the eighteenth floor of the 920 Park Avenue explodes.

Barnes' memory is like fucking Swiss cheese but he's still pretty damned sure this is the first time he's ever been in _three_ explosions in one day. 

It's an experience he's going to try to avoid going forward because getting blown up _sucks_.

 

 

 

*************

If the phrase, "You go without love long enough and you realize it's everything" looks familiar, drop me a note in the comments.  :-)


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20  
  
  
  
**Central Fucking Park**  
  
  
  
I crash land in Bethesda Fountain and it's a good thing I do because Barnes' jacket is on fire.  Also, the cold water snaps me right out of my state of panic and right into pissed off indignation.  "You fucker --"  
  
"Me?"  Barnes gets to his feet, leaps out of the fountain and shakes himself off like a wet dog.    
  
"You," I spit.  Since I don't trust myself to make any fancy moves, I slog through the fountain water and climb out.  My boots make an unpleasant squelching noise and my underwear is so far up my ass, it's practically dental floss.  I get into Barnes' face and wring out my hair -- right on his boots.  "Up until I met you, I've never been anywhere near a fucking explosion and _today_ I've been in three."  
  
He peels off his jacket and wrings it out -- right on _my_ boots.  "Up until I met you, I was never even _in_ a fucking explosion.  I just caused them."  
  
"And I've never had to deal with fucking HYDRA.  But thanks to you --"  
  
"You're blaming _me_?"  
  
"You're a fucking HYDRA magnet, Barnes!"    
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"HYDRA.  Magnet."  
  
"I'm calling bullshit, Jones."  
  
"Bullshit on your bullshit, Barnes.  This was a simple corporate espionage case until --"  
  
"Tony fucking Stark."  Barnes cocks his head slightly, listening for something I can't hear.  "Nothing involving that asshole is ever simple.  Get a move on, Jones.  The cops are coming to check out the meteor that just crashed in the park."  
  
With a sigh, I scoop him up and launch us back into the air.  "I need a fucking shower and so do you.  You stink like fountain water."  
  
"I know how to use my enhanced sense of smell," Barnes says, tightening his grip on my shoulders with that cybernetic monstrosity of an arm.  "Believe me, you smell pretty fucking bad yourself."  
  
"Smooth, Barnes.  You must've been a real big hit with the ladies back in the day what with the sweet talk and the shitty Sinatra."  I know I've overshot my apartment building when I see the bright lights of Times Square.  Even at this ungodly hour, there are tourists milling about, watching themselves on the giant video screen and taking a million pictures.  From this height, it actually looks kind of pretty.    
  
Barnes seems to agree because he's too busy looking down to be making any smart remarks.  
  
I decide to give him a treat and maybe a half-assed apology for getting in his grill with my misplaced pissed off indignation.  It takes effort but I slow us down and I swing down 42nd Street and take us around the Chrysler Building.  I  bring us in close to the shining Art Deco spire and circle slowly so Barnes can see all the gorgeous details.  
  
"I remember when they built this," Barnes murmurs softly.  "Me an' Stevie ditched school to come see.  It was warm.  Spring, I think.  An' after, we walked over to see the construction for the Empire State Building.  That was finished a year later and I saved for months so I could take Stevie to the top for his birthday."  He rests his cheek against my shoulder and makes a contented sound that is completely at odds with his scary reputation.  "I just remembered that.  Thanks, Jones."  
  
"Feel adventurous, Barnes?"  
  
He lifts his head slightly.  "Huh?"  
  
"Security at the Empire State Building is tight since 9/11 but you're the Winter Soldier.  Their security is probably bullshit to you."  With that, I head south and take us to the Empire State Building's 86th floor observation deck.  "Tell me where it's safe to touch down."  
  
Barnes perks up in my arms and points.  "There.  Blind spot."  
  
I set us down exactly where he pointed, landing just like he taught me.  It's my second graceful landing ever.  
  
"Very nice," Barnes praises me as I carefully lower him.  His arm clicks and whirs as he slides it from my neck.  He walks over to the fenced in parapet and looks out over the city.  "It looks... strange."  
  
"Different from what you remember, probably."  
  
"I don't really remember what it looked like."  He turns back to me and his expression is achingly nostalgic.  "I remember Stevie and the look on his face when he saw the view.  And when I bought him that penny postcard of it."  Barnes straightens up and squares his shoulders, as if he needs to defend his actions somehow.  "I took odd jobs so I could save up and take him for his birthday.  We had lunch at the automat and everything.  His ma was in the TB ward and they wouldn't let him see her.  He sent her the postcard."  
  
I don't hug people and I don't get weepy.  It's not my thing.  But listening to him talk about Captain fucking America like that...  "You know it costs sixty-five bucks to come up here if you want to skip all the lines?  Thirty-two if you don't mind waiting around like a schmuck on lines of tourists."  
  
Barnes' face screws up like he just drank sour milk.  "Are you fucking kidding me?  Sixty-five dollars for this?  It was a _dime_ \--"  
  
"Guess you won't be bringing Stevie for a return visit, huh?"  I run a hand through my hair and pull a leaf out.  Yuck.  "I think the postcards are five bucks now and the last automat --"  
  
"Closed in 1991," he finishes, turning back to the view again.  "The kid didn't know what an automat was so we Googled it."  
  
"You Google?"  
  
"I have Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts, too."  Barnes peers at me from over his shoulder and smirks.  "I'm old, Jones. I ain't dead."  He rummages in his pocket and pulls out his StarkPhone to snap a photo of the view, proving that Stark may be an asshole but his tech is the top of the line.  "Five bucks for a fuckin' postcard.  They can kiss my StarkPhone carryin' ass."    
  
"You're a rebel, Barnes," I say dryly.  
  
"You should fly more," Barnes murmurs, tapping at his phone.  I have the feeling he's sending the picture to Stevie and maybe to Spider-kid.  
  
"I told you --"  
  
"So don't be a superhero."  Barnes waves a shiny dismissive hand.  "But goddamn, Jones.  How can you not want to be up there all the time?  Everything's so peaceful.  Beautiful.  Safe."    
  
Safe.  Nowhere is safe.  Nothing is safe.  "I'm not good at it."  
  
"You're better than you think."  
  
"I'm --"  
  
"You are."  
  
"My underwear is glued to my ass crack from the fountain water.  I need a fucking shower."  I snap my fingers at him.  "Come on, princess.  I'll carry you back to the castle."  
  
He flinches at the sound, reminding me yet again how much the shit he's been through is so much like the shit I've been through.  
  
Since I hate apologizing, I ask, "Hey, wanna see the World Trade Center before we call it a night?"  
  
The smile Barnes sends my way tells me he never needed sweet talk or fucking Sinatra to charm the dames out of their panties.  It was amazing the women of New York didn't petition President Roosevelt to keep Barnes out of the damn draft and in their beds where he so obviously belonged.  
  
  
  
0000000000000  
  
  
  
**Tossing and Turning in Avengers' Tower**  
  
  
  
Steve bolts upright when he gets the message from Bucky and he's already reaching for his shield when he actually reads it.  Bucky sent him a picture from...  the Empire State Building?  The message is short.  'Remember this?'  
  
Of course he does and that's what he says in his reply.  
  
A response comes almost immediately.  It's a slightly blurry photo of Madison Square Park, taken from the air.  'Happy thoughts, Stevie.'  
  
"JARVIS, is Bucky okay?" Steve asks because he can't figure out what the Empire State Building has to do with that case Bucky was working on with that Jones woman.  
  
"Sergeant Barnes and Ms. Jones were in an explosion at 920 Park Avenue nearly forty minutes ago," JARVIS tells him and a live news broadcast showing fire trucks, ambulances and tenants wrapped in blankets appears on the screen in his bedroom.  
  
Steve nearly crushes his phone.  "Were they hurt?"  
  
"Minor cuts and burns.  Ms. Jones extricated them from the scene and her landing in Bethesda Fountain caused a bit of a disturbance."  Amateur video fills a corner of the screen showing a flaming object streaking across the sky.  "Her landing did however extinguish the fire on Sergeant Barnes' jacket."  
  
"Okay..."  But it's not.  He has no idea what the fuck is going on.  
  
Another photo from Bucky comes through, this one taken directly above the World Trade Center Memorial site.  It's followed by a selfie.  Bucky's hair is disheveled, his face has cuts, burns and scratches but he's smiling radiantly.  The message reads, 'Really fuckin' happy thoughts'.  
  
A picture of Jones comes next.  Her mouth is open, probably telling Bucky that if he takes the picture, she'll shove the phone somewhere unpleasant.  But she doesn't look angry.  Or sullen.  She actually has an almost-fond expression in her eyes.  'My tour guide AKA Tinkerbell'.  
  
Jones is flying Bucky around the city.  
  
For no other reason than to make him happy.  
  
God, is Bucky happy.  
  
And Steve has been an utter ass.  
  
To Bucky.  To Karen.  
  
Probably to Jones.  
  
He may have been an ass to Peter earlier but he can't remember.  "JARVIS, do you recall my conversation with Peter?"  
  
Video of that conversation appears on the screen, followed by the infamous Facebook photo and a drunken voiceover by Steve.  He buries his face in his hand, completely mortified.  
  
"I have a message for you from Mister Stark," JARVIS announces.  "It was recorded earlier with the instruction to play it for you when you reached this particular level of self-flagellation."  
  
Steve looks up at the pre-recorded video.  
  
Tony's expression is stern and he seems more than a little tired.  "Forgive yourself first.  The rest of them will follow.  Now go to sleep already, damn it.  I'm out of sage advice."  The screen goes blank.  
  
Steve isn't sure whether to be relieved or grateful.   He settles back into his bed, thinking of Bucky's smile and all the apologies he's going to have to dole out come morning.  
  
He's sound asleep in less than a minute.

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this may actually be the most popular story I've posted on AO3 to date. The hit count is staggering and that tells me I must be doing something right. Thanks so much for reading, kudo-ing and commenting. There are more tales to be told in this 'verse, I promise. XOXO MsB

  
Chapter 21  
  
  
**The Castle AKA Jones' Crappy Apartment-Slash-Office**  
  
  
  
Barnes goes instantly alert when the elevator door opens, focusing with laser-like precision on the huddled form of Malcolm, who's passed out or blissed out in front of the door to his apartment.  Again.  I elbow past Barnes and take stock of the situation.  The keys are dangling in the lock like an invitation to rob the place.  Not that there's anything in Malcolm's apartment worth stealing.  Malcolm's a junkie and whatever he had that may have been worth stealing was sold off to pay for his drug habit.  
  
I open the door to his apartment, bracing myself for the inevitable stench of rotting food, body odor and filth -- the aromatic bouquet of a drug addict's lair.  Barnes wordlessly scoops Malcolm up and carries him inside, setting him on the stained sofa.  He backs out of the apartment and waits as I close the door.  
  
"Nice neighbors you've got, Jones."  
  
"Malcolm's harmless," I shrug.  "Except to himself.  Which is more than you can say about most people."  
  
Barnes nods in agreement but shoots a distasteful glare at Malcolm's door anyway.  
  
There's a duffle bag in front of my apartment with the Stark International logo.  I bend, unzip it, peer inside at what is obviously a change of clothes for Barnes.  For the hell of it, I yank out a pair of boxer briefs, dangling them in front of Barnes who actually recoils a step before snatching them from my hand and hiding them behind his back.  "I think those are for you."  
  
He ducks his head and I'm pretty sure he's blushing as he picks up the duffle.  
  
I snort out a laugh and let us into my apartment.  "JARVIS works fast."  
  
"Yeah," Barnes mutters.  
  
I let him stew a few more seconds in his awkwardness and then say, "You can shower first, Barnes."  
  
He grabs the duffle and beats a very un-Winter Soldier-like hasty retreat into the bathroom.    
  
While Barnes cleans himself up, I scrub my hands in the kitchen sink and then go change the sheets on my bed before making up the sofa.  I'm waiting, change of clothes in hand when Barnes emerges from my bathroom fully dressed in a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a light grey T shirt that's tight enough not to leave much to the imagination.  He flashes a grin when he catches me looking and steps aside to let me pass.  
  
It takes a while until I'm sure that I don't stink like fountain water, even a little.  When I step out of my bathroom, I find Barnes sitting on the floor with a towel full of gun parts spread out in front of him.  A pile of knives and paraphernalia are stacked neatly next to the towel while he carefully cleans each item.  The pile is a lot larger than what was hidden in his jacket, proving my earlier theory correct.  "You carry all that?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"All the time?"  
  
"Only when I know HYDRA's sniffin' around."    
  
"And the rest of the time?"  
  
Barnes looks up at me with a Cheshire cat smile.  Not breaking eye contact, he reassembles every gun by touch and puts them carefully into the duffle, followed by the rest of his crap.  Then he gets to his feet, looking down at me with mischief in his eyes.  "Guess we'd better turn in, huh?"  
  
I gesture to the bedroom.  "After you, Barnes."  
  
The smile falters and his shoulders slump.  Barnes seems to shrink when he says, "I... can't.  I want to..."  He raps his fist against his chest.  "I want... But..."  His index finger taps his temple.  "It's... up here... I can't."  
  
Of course he can't.  He hasn't reached those levels of self-loathing and self-destruction yet.  "It's okay, Barnes."  
  
"No, it's not okay," he growls.  "I used to be a _man_ not this... this fucking broken thing."  
  
"You're still --"  
  
"You snapped your fingers and I nearly went to pieces," Barnes spits, showing that he's not far from my level of self-loathing at all.  "And I don't even know why."  
  
I do.  I know firsthand what happens when a megalomaniac gets his hands on a super powered toy.  At first, the asshole plays gently -- for him, anyway -- and then comes the testing of limits, physical and mental.  And after that...  I know what I'm like after eight months of being Kilgrave's property, subject to his every whim.  Barnes passed from handler to handler for seventy fucking years.  'Rape' and 'torture' are probably too mild to describe what he's been through.  I want to tell Barnes it'll get better but with my fucked up life as the yardstick, that'd probably be a lie.  
  
"I should go," Barnes says quietly.  
  
"Stay."  I take his arm and steer him towards the bedroom.  "I'll sleep on the couch."  
  
"I can't --"  
  
"You're too fucking big for the couch, Barnes.  Now get your ass in bed before you pass out on your feet."  I give him a shove for emphasis and he actually moves a couple of steps into the bedroom.  
  
He turns and looks at me and in that moment, the nearly indestructible Winter Soldier is as fragile as glass.  
  
I close the space between us and wrap my arms around him, the way Spider-kid did in that famous photo.  "It's okay, Barnes.  We're friends, remember?  That's enough for me."  
  
Barnes actually stiffens at first and then he rests his chin on the top of my head and sighs as he brings up his arms around me.  "Thanks Jones."  
  
We break apart and, as if by silent agreement, flip each other off.  
  
The Winter Soldier is my friend.    
  
My life is _seriously_ fucked up.  
  
  
  
  
00000000000000  
  
  
**Morning Rush Hour in Hell's Kitchen - AKA Groveling with Steve**  
  
  
  
Karen steps out of her building to find Steve waiting for her with a very large bouquet of exotic flowers and a Starbucks caramel macchiato.  She's early for work because she hasn't slept all night and she's more than a little grumpy from the lack of sleep.  As if sleep were even an option after being booty called and the break-up that followed.  
  
"I'm an ass," Steve says without preamble.  
  
It's a good start so Karen waits to hear the rest of his prepared speech.  And of course it's a prepared speech.  Steve looks even more like shit than she does so she's sure he spent the night nursing his hangover, thinking about what he did wrong and what strategy to use to fix things with her.  It's the fact that he's actually put thought into it that makes her stay to listen to what he has to say.  That doesn't mean she's going to make it easy on him.  She raises an eyebrow and makes a show of checking her non-existent watch.  
  
"I'm an ass," Steve repeats.  "You're an incredible woman, Karen.  Smart.  Brave.  Beautiful."  He gives her a hopeful look and adds.  "Forgiving."  
  
"Most of my groveling exes put 'beautiful' at the top of the list," Karen tells him.  "You get points for prioritizing 'smart' over 'beautiful'.  Keep going."  In fact, he's the first who ever has.  That, more than him being a living legend, is what she likes most about him.    
  
"I think this thing between us could be something," Steve attempts.  
  
"It could be something toxic," Karen counters.  He doesn't need to know that she's this close to forgiving him if he says the right thing because even though she's danced this dance before, Steve is nothing like those groveling exes she just mentioned.  "You're in love with someone else."  
  
"I'll always love her but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of moving on."  His blue eyes are earnest as they look into hers. "I'd like to move on with you, Karen.  But...  If it's okay with you, maybe we could take it slowly.  I know that's probably not what men are like today but --"  
  
"But you're being honest with me and talking about what you want from this relationship.  Finally."  
  
Steve hangs his head.  "I think I'm just figuring it out myself."  He looks down at the flowers and the coffee and holds them out to her.  "Uh, these are for you."  
  
Karen takes the coffee first because... hello.  Coffee.  
  
"I was... afraid," he admits to the bouquet in his hand.  "I didn't even realize it or maybe I just didn't admit it to myself.  But what I think I was afraid of is that if I let you in, it really is over with her.  And it has to be.  It just hurts like hell to admit it."  
  
She decides to throw him a bone because really, Captain America just admitted he was afraid.  "Admitting it is the first step to moving on.  I've been through a few breakups myself so I know what I'm talking about.  Your case is a little unique but it sounds to me like you're finally ready to try."  
  
Steve exhales in relief.  "Look, I know I'm a bit of a mess.  I'm still trying to get my bearings in this century and the life I lead isn't anything even remotely normal.  I fight aliens and robots.  I have an adopted kid who swings around the city on webs.  My best friend was the brainwashed Fist of HYDRA for the past seven decades.  Sam thinks I might have PTSD or be mildly depressed.  I don't really know.  I... I have baggage.  That's what they say, right?  Baggage?"  
  
"You're doing a hell of a job selling this relationship in general and yourself as any kind of a catch in particular," Karen teases him.  "What is it I'm supposed to see in you?"  
  
"That I'm a nice guy?" Steve answers uncertainly.  "I'd like to say I wouldn't hurt you for the world, but I did.  And I'm more sorry for that than you'll ever know.  If you take me back, I'll do my best to never do it again."  
  
"How many times did you rehearse _that_?"  
  
"Four."  He blushes again.  "I also got relationship advice from Tony Stark."  
  
"You're doing the opposite of what he said, I hope."  
  
"Actually, he's the one who told me I was running away from the possibility of love."  
  
" _Tony_ said that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
" _Tony_?"  
  
"I know."  Steve shifts from foot to foot.  "Thing is, he was right.  I was."  He looks steadily at Karen.  "I'd like to stop running and you're the one I'd like to stop running with."  
  
"Jesus, Steve, you make it so hard to be pissed off at you," Karen says.  She finishes the coffee and eyes him.  
  
He smiles hesitantly.  "Bucky used to say that all the time.  And before you say it, no.  We're best friends.  Brothers.  That's all."  
  
"You're raising Spider-man together, Steve.  You have to admit that sounds more like a romance than a bromance."  Just because she's ready to forgive him doesn't mean she needs to make it easy.    
  
"A lot of things are weird in the future," Steve shrugs.  "I'm learning to just go with it."  
  
Karen gives him the most serious look she can muster in her exhausted state.  "Okay."  
  
"Okay?"  
  
"You're forgiven."  
  
"Can I take you to dinner tonight?"  
  
"Tomorrow.  Tonight I'm going to come home and pass out."  She takes the flowers from his hand and gives him the empty coffee cup.  "But you can walk me to work.  And maybe, if I get a second wind later, you can bring me dinner tonight."  
  
The smile on Steve's face is a lot like the sun as it rises over Hell's Kitchen.  Bright.  Joyful.  
  
Karen digs in her pocket and slips her sunglasses on.  The sunrise is beautiful but she wants to see where she's going and not be blinded by it.  
  
  
  
000000000000000  
  
  
**Alias Investigations - AKA Jones' Place**  
  
  
Barnes wakes up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of Jones tapping away at her computer.  He allows himself the luxury of staying tucked under the covers while he leisurely takes in the details of Jones' bedroom.  Not that he hasn't already catalogued them, particularly the exits, the vulnerabilities and the hiding places.  That's automatic behavior.  What he's been relearning is how to look around and try to get a sense of the person who inhabits the space.  
  
Jones' bedroom has white walls that were sloppily painted and lazily plastered by whatever slumlord owns the building.  Her furniture is an unremarkable set made of wood that's halfway between light and dark.  The top of the dresser is completely bare, as is the night stand.  Barnes isn't about to go snooping, either.  Her closet door is open, exposing three pairs of jeans and a pair of black slacks hung neatly on hangers and sweaters folded in a neat pile on a shelf.  Everything is grey or black.  There's not a dress to be seen.  
  
Barnes likes that.  
  
He stretches languidly and the plates in his arm click and whir with the movement.  The arm is part of him.  It's always been there, according to his fucked up memories.  Sometimes, though, it feels almost like an alien presence.  It's another reminder that he's got a long way to go before he's a man again.  If he's ever going to be one.  Reluctantly, he gets up and pads into the living room-slash-waiting room.  
  
"There's coffee," Jones tells him unnecessarily, not looking up from her laptop.  She's hunched over the coffee table, typing and, apparently, she was too busy to put on clothes because she's sitting there in some kind of sports bra and panties.  Black, of course.    
  
Barnes' training lets him catalog the image without stopping to stare at her like some kind of fucking pervert.  He makes it into the kitchen before he has any kind of embarrassing reaction to seeing her.  A mug that reads 'Good Morning Asshole' is waiting for him on the counter.  He can't help smiling as he pours the coffee.  
  
"So?" he asks, coming out of the kitchen carrying his 'asshole' mug.  "What do we do now?"  
  
Jones looks up.  "Now we get paid, Barnes.  The case is over."  
  
He looks at her, confused.  "What do you mean, it's over?"  
  
"Hill's people recovered what was left of the blueprints from the crime scene early this morning.  God only knows how they got access."  She flips the laptop around to show him a series of picture.  "There were no bodies, not even Beck's."  
  
"So we should find him --"  
  
"That's a job for the police.  They've got security footage of him entering the building and going up to the eighteenth floor.  Hill's trying to get the charges from Halloween reinstated, too."  
  
"And what about the HYDRA asshole whose apartment got blown up?"  
  
"He's in Paris," Jones tells him with a shrug.  "His official statement to the cops is that he has no idea what happened.  Anyway, going after HYDRA isn't my thing.  I'm a private investigator."  
  
The unspoken implication is that it's _his_ thing.  
  
"I think Hill or your pal Stevie might be looking into Malick now."  Jones leans back.  "So, all that's left is to type up the investigation report and submit my bill.  Stark is giving me a bonus on top of that for pointing out flaws in his hiring practices.  And I'm going to give you a piece."  
  
Barnes shakes his head.  "I don't --"  
  
"You got blown up three times, Barnes.  You earned it."  She narrows her eyes at him.  "Besides, if you're serious about getting your license, we have to record your time so you can meet the experience requirement."  Jones gets up and crosses the room to rummage in the bottom drawer of her desk.  She pulls out a battered study guide and a well-worn copy of 'The Principles of Detection.'  "You can keep the study guide but I want the book back.  It was a gift from the asshole who mentored me."  
  
"Nice to know you have fond memories of the guy."  
  
"He taught me a lot but he wasn't crazy about the idea of teaching a woman, even after he found out I could handle myself," Jones shrugs.  "It's still a pretty male-dominated field."  
  
It takes effort to keep himself from sounding hopeful when he asks.  "Okay, so what else are you working on?"  
  
"Finding work," she tells him.  "That was it, Barnes.  My only case."  
  
He narrows his eyes, putting the pieces together.  The bartender isn't a case she's working on.  He's personal.  Barnes has a hunch that the bartender is the reason or connected to the reason Jones is almost as much of a mess as he is.  He decides not to press Jones for details but promises himself to look into the sonofabitch.  
  
"Most of my cases are cheat cases and missing persons," Jones goes on, pulling on an oversized T shirt that hits mid-thigh.  She picks up his duffle and hands it to him, not so subtly steering him towards the door.  "I'll call you in on the stuff that's not so run of the mill."  
  
"Uh--"  
  
"I'll call you, Barnes."  
  
It's only after she shuts the door in his face that he realizes Jones doesn't have his number and didn't ask for it.  
  
That's okay.  JARVIS will take care of _that_.  
  
  
  
000000000000  
  
  
**Midtown High School - AKA Hell on Earth**  
  
  
  
Today has been one of the worst days of Peter Parker's life.  This is not an understatement.  Today was the Day of the Condoms.  It started with a bouquet of inflated condoms stuck to his locker door, followed by condoms left on every chair in every class he was in.  During lunch, packets of condoms rained down in every direction.  The fishbowl in Ms. Hester's office must be running low by now, Peter thinks.  
  
Even though the pamphlets were Mary Jane's idea, she's pissed off at him anyway because, in her words, he turned the simple task of getting pamphlets into a condom-filled fiasco.  
  
Peter is sure she'll get over it.  
  
Eventually.  
  
Maybe around the time Flash and his idiot friends stop referring to him as...  
  
"Hey, Pervert."  Flash comes up next to Peter and drapes his arm around Peter's shoulder before Peter can make his escape from school grounds.  "I've got some more pamphlets for you, buddy."  
  
Peter cringes as Flash shoves copies of 'I Think I Might Be Gay', 'Coming Out' and 'What You Need to Know about Same-Sex Relationships' into Peter's hands.  "But I'm --"  
  
"Not making the beast with two backs with Watson."  Flash leers at him.  "Liz told me Watson swore up and down you two hadn't done it.  That leaves your creepy cousin who's always sniffing around you.  Look, there he is now."  
  
And there Bucky is, holding his StarkPhone and scowling so hard it's a wonder everyone around him isn't taking cover.  "Petey!  Get your ass over here!"  
  
Flash leans in close, practically brushing Peter's ear with his lips.  "Uh-oh.  You think I went and made him jealous?"  He digs into the pocket of his varsity jacket, pulls out a handful of condoms and stuffs them down Peter's sweater.  "Aw, you should go make it up to him, Pervert."  
  
Peter heaves a sigh and slouches over towards Bucky.    
  
"What the fuck is this?"  Bucky demands, shoving his StarkPhone under Peter's nose.  And there it is, the infamous Facebook photo.  Bucky's gaze ticks down to the pamphlets in Peter's hand.  "And what the fuck are those?"  
  
Peter looks skyward but the Ol' Parker Luck is running true to form and there's not a super villain in sight.  There's not even a mediocre bad guy.   Hell, he'd settle for a purse snatcher or even a sidewalk spitter at this point.  
  
Bucky reaches out and stuffs his hand down the front of Peter's sweater, retrieving the condoms that Flash just shoved there.  "Boy, you and me are gonna have a _long_ talk this afternoon."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Flash and his idiot friends sniggering and high-fiving.  
  
Bucky's eyes narrow.  
  
Flash and his idiot friends take off.  
  
With a grunt of satisfaction, Bucky grabs Peter by the arm and practically drags him the eight blocks back to his house where Steve is waiting on the front steps.  Because of course the day can't possibly get any worse.  
  
"It's not what you think, Buck," Steve says.  
  
Peter's mouth drops open.  
  
Bucky holds up the gay sex pamphlets and the condoms.  "Stevie, I got no idea what to think."  
  
Steve's eyes go wide and then the corners of his mouth twitch slightly as he looks down at Peter.  "You didn't have a very good day, did you?"  
  
"No."  
  
"How do you think you did on your final?"  
  
"Okay, I guess," Peter shrugs.  "It was English."  He trudges into the house, followed by Bucky and Steve.  
  
Bucky grabs Peter's arm and steers him to the sofa.  "Sit."  
  
Peter sits.  
  
"Explain."  
  
"It was Mary Jane's idea," Peter blurts, then groans and buries his face in his hand.  
  
Bucky actually _growls_ and Peter's head snaps back up.  "I was fifteen once, Petey, so I know good and damn well whose idea it was and it stops.  Now."  
  
"You remember being fifteen?"  
  
"That's not the point," Bucky barks.  "The point is you're through, Romeo.  You keep it in your pants from now on --"  
  
"B-but we didn't!"  Peter looks helplessly at Steve.  
  
"He didn't," Steve says gently, resting a hand on Peter's shoulder.  
  
"Then what's with all the rubbers?!" Bucky demands.  "And the fu- uh, freakin' pamphlets?!"  
  
"Th-they're for you," Peter stammers.  
  
The color drains from Bucky's face, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.  "What?"  
  
"B-because y-you... uh... girls," he says lamely and then mumbles.  "It was Mary Jane's idea."  
  
It's Bucky's turn to face-palm.  He groans loudly and then lifts his face to eye Steve.  "Did you know about this?"  
  
"Well, I --"  
  
"You _knew_."  
  
"Tony sent me the Facebook post."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Before you and Ms. Jones came to the Tower."  
  
"And you didn't think to mention it?"  
  
"You were working on a case," Steve says.  "Besides, I handled it."  
  
"By getting drunk and blackmailing me," Peter puts in.  
  
Bucky stares at Steve.  "You got drunk?"  
  
"And he blackmailed me."  
  
Steve shoots a stern look in Peter's direction.  "That was after we cleared the air and I told you that you didn't need to get tested for STDs."  
  
"One day," Bucky groans.  "I go off on my own for one fucking day --"  
  
"Language," Steve scolds him.  
  
Bucky flips him off and continues as if Steve didn't just interrupt him.  "Look at the shit the two of you got up to while I was gone.  I hope the two of you learned your lesson about butting in where you ain't got no business butting in."  
  
Peter crosses his heart and nods enthusiastically.  "Man, did I ever."  
  
"It'll be a long time before I go anywhere near Thor's Asgardian rotgut," Steve says.    
  
Bucky nods, apparently satisfied.  
  
"So," Peter ventures.  "Did you, uh, have fun?"  
  
Bucky smiles radiantly.    
  
  
  
  
Never quite the end...  
  
  
##############  
  
The Good Morning Asshole Mug is a real thing sold by Fishs Eddy in NYC:  http://www.fishseddy.com/good-morning-mug.html.  There are some things that even I can't make up.

 


	22. Awesome Artwork by Cainternn

 

 

 

 

 

<https://www.tumblr.com/reblog/163431110363/GtRpkMPx>


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